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The Pembroke Booklets 

(First Series) 

Sir John Suckling 

Ballads and other Poems 

Sir Charles Sedley 


John Wilmot 

(Earl of Rochester) 

Poems and Songs 


J. R. Tutin 



Sir John Suckling 

(1609- 1 642) 

" O Suckling, gallant Sir John, 
Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton ; 
Freshpainter of* Weddings,' great author of rare 
' Poet Sessions . . . 
O facile princeps of ' wit about town' " 

—Leigh Hunt. 

Sir Charles Sedley 


"In his own sphere Sedley is unapproachable ; such songs as 
' Love still has something of the sea* or * Phillis is my only joy ' 
easily outdistance all rivals." — A. H. Bullen. 

JohnjWjlniQt,' H§4 pf Rochester 

1 * c * • (i64r : 'i68o)* 
« «• * # » t * • • ••• • • , * * * 

Whllto)ie,of?Aose«tfa> thfn} themselves inspir'd, 
* Nbr write with* the tain •hvj>e?tb tie admit* 'd, 
But, from a rule I have {upon long trial), 
Tavoid with care all sort of self-denial. 
Which way soe'er desire and fancy lead, 
Contemning fame, that path I boldly tread." 

— Epistle to Lord Mulgrave. 





From the Portrait by Russell, after Vandyke, in the 
National Portrait Gallery 



' • There never yet was honest man " (Loving and Beloved) 1 1 
" Dost see how unregarded now ' (Sonnets — I) . . 12 

"Of thee, kind Boy, I ask no Red and White" 

(Sonnets — II) ...... 12 

11 0, for some honest Lover's Ghost ! " (Sonnets — III) . 13 
" There never yet was Woman made " . . -14 

"If Man might know" ..... 15 

"Stay here, fond Youth, and ask no more, be wise" 

(Against Fruition) ..... 15 
" Fie upon Hearts that burn with mutual Fire " (Another 

of the Same, against Fruition) . .16 

" Love, Reason, Hate did once bespeak " . 17 

" 'Tis now since I sat down before " . . .18 

"I tell thee, Dick, where I have been" (Ballad on a 

Wedding) ...... 19 

" Honest Lover, whatsoever " . . . 23 

" Out upon it, I have loved " . 24 

"I will not love one Minute more, I swear" (Love 

turn'd to Hatred) ..... 25 
" Never believe me if I love " (The Careless Lover) . 25 
" This one Request I make to him that sits the Clouds 

above " (Love and Debt alike Troublesome) . . 26 

" Leaning her Head upon my Breast" (Love's Repre- 
sentation) ...... 28 

"What I no more Favours? Not a Ribbon more" (To 

a Lady who forbade to love before Company) 29 

" The crafty Boy that had full oft assay'd " -3° 

" I prithee send me back my Heart " . -3* 

"lam confirm'd a Woman can " ... 31 

" I prithee spare me, gentle Boy " . . 32 

"When, dearest, I but think of thee" 33 

"Hast thou seen the down in the air" . . -33 

"On a still silent Night scarce could I number" (His 

Dream) ...... 34 

" So Misers look upon their Gold " • • • 35 

" No, No, fair Heretic, it needs must be " . .36 

"The little boy, to show his Might and Power" (The 

Metamorphosis) ..... 36 



"lama man of War and Might " (A Soldier) . 
" Tell me, ye juster Deities " (The Expostulation) 
" Whether these Lines do you find out " (To Master 

John Hales of Eton) . 
"Why so pale and wan, fond Lover? " 
" Fill it up, fill it up to the Brink " 
" Come, let the State stay " 
• • She's pretty to walk with " 


" Phillis, Men say that all my Vows " 

" Phillis is my only joy " . 

" Hears not my Phillis how the Birds " 

"Phillis, this early Zeal assuage" (To a Devout Young 

Gentlewoman) ...... 

"lama lusty lively Lad " (The Extravagant) . 
"Tush! never tell me I'm too young * r (The Forward 

Lover) .... 
"Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit " 
" Love still has something of the Sea " 
" Fair Aminta, art thou mad ? " . 
"Scrape no more your harmless chins" (Advice to the 

Old Beaux) 
" Not, Celia, that I juster am " . 


" All my past Life is mine no more " 
"What cruel Pains Corinna takes" (To Corinna) 
" Room, Room for a Blade of the Town " 
" An Age in her Embraces past " . 
"The utmost Grace the Greeks could show" (Grecian 
Kindness) ...... 

" Love bid me hope, and I obey'd" (Woman's Honour) 

" How blest was the created State " (The Fall) 

" Give me Leave to rail at you " . 

" 'Tis not that I am weary grown " (Upon Leaving his 

" Absent from thee I languish still " . 

" Why dost thou shade thy lovely face ? O why " (To his 

Mistress) ..... 

" My dear Mistress has a Heart " . 
" Wliile on those lovely looks I gaze " 
" Prithee, now, fond Fool, give o'er" (A Dialojrue) 
"Vulcan, contrive me such a Cup" (Upon drinking in 

a Bowl) ...... 

" Nothing/ thou Elder Brother ev'n to Shade" (Upon 





















Sir John Suckling, son of a knight of the same name, 
was born at Twickenham in February, 1608-9. 
Aubrey says of the father, who held various offices 
under the Crown, that he was but a dull fellow, and 
that the poet derived his wit from his mother. It is 
quite uncertain where he went to school, but in 1623 
he entered Trinity College, Oxford, where he showed 
facility in learning languages and music. The elder 
Sir John died in 1627, and John took over his estates. 
Some travel abroad in 1628 was followed by a travel- 
ling of a more stirring kind in 163 1, when he joined the 
Marquis of Hamilton's expedition, which sailed from 
Yarmouth, and took part in several battles and sieges, 
including that of Magdeburg. Suckling is said to 
have behaved well as a soldier, and spoke of himself 
as one in a poem of his. 1 He probably returned to 
England in 1633, and was soon in the swim and a 
leading figure at Court. His nimble tongue had many 
opportunities of exercise ; he was, SIR W. Davenant 
tells us, baited like a bull : " his repartee and witt 
being most sparkling when most set on and provok*d." 
Of the level of his table-talk we can conjecture from 
his letters and, still more, from his verses. There is 
no doubt that it was brilliant, and in a Court of 
taste and refinement like Charles I.'s it meant a social 
triumph. Winstanley calls him " the darling of the 

As his poetry would suggest, Suckling was a great 
entertainer of the ladies, and never sent them away 
from his parties without costly gifts of silk stockings, 
jewelled garters, and gloves. But he had another and 

iSeep. 37. 


:-' I / : V '::..*: / \ preface 

a less attractive hobby, that of gaming, and is said 
to have been reputed the best bowler and eardplayer 
in the kingdom. As he himself confesses in his 
" Sessions of the Poets "— 

" Suckling next was called, but did not appear, 
But straight one whisper'd Apollo i' th' ear, 
That of all men living he cared not for 't, 
He loved not the Muses so well as his sport." 

One day his poor sisters came to the Piccadilly bowl- 
ing-green, " crying for the fear he should lose all their 
fortunes." To show his elasticity of spirit, we are told 
that, when at his lowest ebb, he would put on his most 
glorious apparel. It may be questioned, however, if all 
the tall stories told of his extremes of good and ill 
fortune are true. In a romancing age like the Caroline 
any prominent person soon acquired his legend, and 
Suckling's large estates must have been a main- 

Suckling no doubt had many passing affaires de 
cceur (" Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days to- 
gether"), but one courtship was serious, that of the 
daughter of Sir Henry Willoughby, who was a 
great heiress. As a letter which recently came to light 
at Clifton Hall, Notts, clearly proves, 1 the king used 
his influence in pushing the match, but unfortunately 
the lady herself did not agree, like a loyal subject, to 
accept his Majesty's favourite. To this passive resist- 
ance she added active, that is to say she asked an- 
other of her suitors to waylay Suckling and extort 
from him an engagement renouncing his attempts on 
her. This the suitor (Digby, a brother of Sir 
Kenelm's) did, with some allies, and poor Suckling 
received a sound drubbing. The affair caused great 
scandal, and, not having drawn sword, Suckling was 
accused of cowardice, and for some time was under a 
cloud socially. In 1637 came "The Sessions of the 
Poets," in which there is a good deal of hard hitting 
(sometimes in bad taste, as in Davenant's case) and 

1 See Daily Chronicle, August 24th, 1905, and a note by the 
present writer, August 25th. 



acute criticism. I have already quoted the stanza in 
which he treats himself as severely as the others. In 
1638 was produced Aglaura^ said to be the first play 
acted with scenery, and Brennoralt the following year. 
Suckling's part in the Scottish war may have lacked 
distinction, but Sir John Mennis's celebrated ballad 
is obviously spiteful. 

It would take too long to trace the political intrigues in 
which Suckling and the other "Staffordians" engaged 
to strengthen the King's power, and which compelled 
him, in order to escape a trial for high treason, to 
make a hurried departure for France. There are 
many stories of his life in exile — most of them pro- 
bably false. One relates his having been in the clutches 
of the Spanish Inquisition. There are at least two 
accounts of his death : one that he was murdered by 
his valet putting a razor in his boot ; the second — un- 
happily, it seems, the true one — that he poisoned him- 
self. His death occurred at Paris in May or June 

The briefest and perhaps the most satisfactory 
criticism ever passed on him is that of Mistress 
Millamant in The Way of the Worlds " natural, easy 
Suckling." With a woman's intuition she at once 
perceives the two charms of his verse. When one 
thinks of the laboured love poetry, metaphysical and 
other, then being produced in great quantities, we may 
be thankful for " natural, easy Suckling," who had no 
affectation of simulating profundity by obscurity and 
crabbedness. Of course his poetry is superficial, but 
it shares that defect with beauty, which, we are always 
being told, is but skin-deep. But if he does not give 
us great thoughts, he always affords us entertainment, 
and a world without entertaintment would be a dull 
place. He is singularly happy in the coinage of a 
phrase or a simile : it sticks in the memory : — 

" Women enjoy'd (whate'er before t' have been) 
Are like romances read or sights once seen." 

" Love's a camelion that lives on mere air, 
And surfeits when it comes to grosser fare.' 



" Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, 
As sudden lights do sleeping men, 
So they by their bright rays awake me." 

" Tis Expectation makes a blessing dear, 
Heaven were not Heaven, if we knew what it were." 

Though some great poets have had no ear for music 
—Tennyson, I believe, was one— Suckling's musical 
gifts gave him an excellent mastery of rhythm ; it 
were hard to find in him a single jarring line " out of 
tune and harsh." And then how wide his range of 
subject and treatment, how flexible his manner ! Like 
Nanki-Poo in The Mikado he might have sung — 

" My catalogue is long, 

Through every passion ranging, 
And to your humour changing 
I tune my supple song." 

The other two singers who contribute to this collection 
are, it must be said, somewhat monotonous both in 
subject and expression, though neither is lacking in 
wit and humour. 

Let us now pass to one of these, Sir Charles 
Sedley, another of the seventeenth - century fine 
gentlemen who wrote with ease in the intervals 
between wenching, gaming, and drinking. He was 
born at Aylesford, Kent, about 1639, and went to 
Wadham College, Oxford, in 1655. After the Restora- 
tion he was elected (if the word can be used of what 
was probably a mere nomination) for New Romney. 
But he took little heed of senatorial dignity— such as it 
is — and his life was exactly like that of the other two 
poets of this volume, one of " wine, women, and song." 
We need not grumble : we may grant him the first 
two ingredients of his life, for we of to-day have the 
third for our delectation. Sedley, as is well known, 
was an actor in that scandalous scene at the Cock 
Tavern in Bow Street, in which some of the tipsy 
crew appeared on the balcony in a state of nature, 
and harangued the ignobile vulgus in the street below. 
That lark cost him a cool five hundred, and Chief- 
Justice Foster improved the occasion by observing 


that it was for Sedley "and such wicked rascals 
as he was that God's anger and judgment hung over 
us. 9 Alas for poor Sedley ! history records but few 
of his good deeds, which is a way with that uncharit- 
able Muse. In Pepys (Feb. 1669) we find the irate 
poet thrashing Kynaston, an actor who had the 
impudence to mimic him in face, voice, and dress on 
the stage. He married a daughter of the Earl of 
Rivers, and his own daughter achieved the distinc- 
tion of being the Duke of York's favourite mistress. 
As his Royal Highness was said to prefer his wenches 
plain, this may not be saying much for the lady's 
beauty, but any how he made her Countess of 
Dorchester. Sedley's sporting career came to an 
end in a place of sport ; his skull was fractured by the 
fall of the tennis court in the Hay market 

He was a true singer, only a singer of trifles, 
however ; his happiest efforts were inspired by a 
young lady called Phillis — only fifteen years old, if we 
are to believe one of his songs — and " Phillis is my 
only joy," wedded to a charming tune, bids fair to be 
immortal. How racy too his advice to her in her 
pious days : — 

11 'Tis early to begin to fear 
The Devil at fifteen." 

Charles II. is said to have told him that nature 
had given him a patent to be Apollo's viceroy. His 
Majesty's repute for never saying a foolish thing is 
somewhat impaired by this remark. 

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, has long * 
been regarded as a sort of awful example in company / 
with other notorious historical characters, like Blue 
Beard, Captain Kidd, Alexander the Sixth, and the 
late Mr Charles Peace. He has had a worse fate 
still : he has been used for purposes of edification and 
put into penny tracts to turn the erring from their 
sinful ways ; for he rashly let himself be converted v 
towards the end of his life, and thus spoiled a high 
reputation for consistency. I can only briefly trace 
his career. Born 1647, he was at Wadham, Oxford, 
thereafter travelled in France, smelt powder in the 


attack on the Dutch fleet at Bergen, and returned to 
England to haunt the Court and alternately charm and 
infuriate the King. Grammont records that at least 
once in each year he was sent packing, and, consider- 
ing some unprintable epigrams on Charles, which no 
doubt reached their subject's ears, this is not surpris- 
ing. He had a queer, mad life of it, always (when 
sober enough) in some outlandish escapade. Once 
he set up as a quack doctor with a booth on Tower 
Hill; at another—so St. Evremond tells us—he 
and a bird of a feather, the Duke of Buckingham, 
took an inn on the Newmarket road, with a view 
to debauching all the women of the neighbourhood, 
a purpose which they are said to have achieved. He 
thought to repair his broken fortunes by a rich match, 
but the lady of his choice, Elizabeth Malet, was 
not agreeable, so (in 1665) he waylaid her at Charing 
Cross, popped her into a coach, and was at Uxbridge 
before he was caught. This landed him in the Tower 
of London, but he was soon pardoned, and, curiously 
enough, married his victim a couple of years later. 
His known mistresses include Elizabeth Barky,. 
whom he taught to act and put on the stage. His health 
broke down in 1679, and thenceforth he led a quieter 
life. There seems no doubt he was convinced of the 
error of his ways by Bishop Burnett. He had a 
fine lyric gift, and, though there is little enough 
sincerity in most of his love-songs, and he attains a 
cynical extreme in one in which he hails his mistress 
as worthy to serve all mankind, there is one poem, 
beginning " Why dost thou shade thy lovely face ? O 
why," which suggests an almost passionate devotion. 
Had Rochester criticised himself as acutely as he 
criticised others, in his satires, he might have been a 
better man. The only one of his long poems I have 
included is that on " Nothing," which is ingenious in 
its way. 



Sir John Suckling 
Loving and Beloved 

There never yet was honest Man 
That ever drove the Trade of Love ; 

It is impossible, nor can 
Integrity our Ends promove ; 

For Kings and Lovers are alike in this, 

That their chief Art in Reign Dissembling is. 

Here we are loved and there we love, 
Good Nature now and Passion strive 

Which of the two should be above, 
And Laws unto the other give : 

So we false Fire with Art sometimes discover, 

And the true Fire with the same Art do cover. 

What Rack can Fancy find so high ? 

Here we must court and here engage ; 
Though in the other Place we die, 

Oh, 'tis Torture all, and Cosenage ! 
And which the harder is, I cannot tell, 
To hide true Love, or make false Love look welL 

Since it is thus, God of Desire, 

Give me my Honesty again, 
And take thy Brands back and thy Fire ; 

I am weary of the state I am in : 
Since (if the very best should now befall), 
Love's Triumph must be Honour's Funeral. 

Sir John Suckling 

Dost see how unregarded now 

That Piece of Beauty passes ? 
There was a Time when I did vow 
To that alone ; 

But mark the Fate of Faces ; 
The Red and White works now no more on me, 
Than if it could not charm* or I not see. 

And yet the Face continues good, 

And I have still Desires, 
And still the self-same Flesh and Blood, 
As apt to melt 

And suffer from those Fires ; 
O some kind Power unriddle where it lies — 
Whether my Heart be faulty or her Eyes. 

She every Day her Man does kill, 

And I as often die ; 
Neither her Power, then, nor my Will 
Can question'd be ; 

What is the mystery ? 
Sure, Beauty's Empires, like to greater States, 
Have certain Periods set, and hidden Fates. 


Of thee, kind Boy, I ask no Red and White 

To make up my Delight : 

No odd becoming Graces, 
Black Eyes or little Know-not-whats in Faces ; 
Make me but mad enough, give me good Store 

Of Love for her I court — 

1 ask no more, 
'Tis Love in Love that makes the Sport. 

Sir John Suckling 

There's no such Thing as that we Beauty call 

It is mere Cosenage all ; 

For though some long ago 
Like t' certain Colours mingled so and so, 
That doth not tie me now from choosing new, 

If I a Fancy take 

To Black and Blue, 
That Fancy doth it Beauty make. 

'Tis not the Meat, but 'tis the Appetite 

Makes Eating a Delight, 

And if I like one Dish 
More than another, that a Pheasant is ; 
What in our Watches, that in us is found ; 

So to the Height and Nick 

We up be wound, 
No matter by what Hand or Trick. 


O, for some honest Lover's Ghost, 

Some kind, unbodied Post 

Sent from the Shades below ! 

I strangely long to know, 
Whether the nobler chaplets wear 
Those that their Mistress' scorn did bear, 

Or those that were used kindly. 

For whatsoe'er they tell us here 

To make those sufferings dear 

'Twill there, I fear, be found 

That to the being crown'd, 
To have loved alone will not suffice, 
Unless we also have been wise, 

And have our Loves enjoy'd. 

What Posture can we think him in 
That here, unloved again, 
Departs and's thither gone, 
Where each sits by his own ? 


Sir John Suckling 

Or how can that Elysium be 
Where I my Mistress still must see 
Circled in others' Arms ? 

For there the Judges all are just, 

And Sophonisba must 

Be his whom she held dear, 

Not his who loved her here. 
The sweet Philoclea, since she died, 
Lies by her Pirocles his side, 

Not by Amphialus. 

Some Bays, perchance, or Myrtle Bough, 
For difference crowns the Brow 
Of those kind souls that were 
The noble Martyrs here ; 
And if that be the only Odds, 
(As who can Tell ?) ye kinder Gods, 
Give me the Woman here. 

There never yet was Woman made, 

Nor shall, but to be cursed, 
And O ! that I, fond I, should first I 

Of any Lover 
This Truth at my Own Charge to other Fools discover ! 

You that have promised to yourselves * 

Propriety in Love, 
Know Women's Hearts like Straw do move ; 

And what we call 
Their Sympathy is but Love to get in general. 

All Mankind are alike to them, 

And though we Iron find 
That never with a Loadstone joined, • j 

>Tis not the Iron's Fault, 
It is because near the Loadstone yet it was never | 


Sir John Suckling 

If where a gentle Bee hath fallen, 

And labour'd to his Power, 
A new succeeds not to that Flow'r, 

But passes by, 
'Tis to be thought, the Gallant elsewhere loads his 

For still the Flowers ready stand, 

One buzzes round about, 
One lights, one tastes, gets in, gets out ; 

All always use them, 
Till all their sweets are gone, and all again refuse them. 

Scire se liceret qua debts subire 
Et non subire, pulchrum est scire ; 
Sed si subire debes qua debts scire : 
Quersum vis scire, nam debes subire t 

If Man might know 

The 111 he must undergo, 

And shun it so, 

Then it were good to know : 
But if he undergo it, 
Though he know it, 
What boots him know it ? 
He must undergo it. 

Against Fruition 

Stay here, fond Youth, and ask no more, be wise : 
Knowing too much long since lost Paradise. 
The virtuous Joys thou hast, thou would'st should still 
Last in their Pride ; and would'st not take it ill 
If rudely from sweet Dreams (and for a Toy) 
Thou wert awakM? He wakes himself that does 


Sir John Suckling 

Fruition adds no new Wealth, but destroys, 
And, while it pleaseth much the Palate, cloys ; 
Who thinks he shall be happier for that 
As reasonably might hope ne might grow fat 
By eating to a Surfeit ; this once past, 
What relishes ? even Kisses lose their Taste. 

Urge not 'tis necessary, alas ! we know 

The homeliest Thing which Mankind does is so ; 

The World is of a vast Extent, we see, 

And must be peopled ; children there must be ; 

So must Bread too ; but since there are enough 

Born to the Drudgery, what need we plough ? 

Women enjoy'd (whate'er before t' have been) 
Are like Romances read, or Sights once seen ; 
Fruition's dull, and spoils the Play much more, 
Than if one read or knew the Plot before ; 
Tis Expectation makes a Blessing dear, 
Heaven were not Heaven if we knew what it were. 

And as in Prospects we are there pleased most 
Where something keeps the Eye from being lost, 
And leaves us Room to guess ; so here Restraint 
Holds up Delight that with Excess would faint. 
They who know all the Wealth they have are poor, 
He's only rich that cannot tell his Store. 

Another of the Same, 
against Fruition 

Fl£ upon Hearts that burn with mutual Fire : 
I hate two Minds that breathe but one Desire : 
Were I to curse th' unhallowed sort of Men, 
I'd wish them to love and be lov'd again. 
Love's a Camelion, that lives on mere Air ; 
And surfeits when it comes to grosser Fare : 

Sir John Suckling 

'Tis petty Jealousies and little Fears, 

Hopes join'd with Doubts, and Joys with April Tears, 

That crowns our Love with Pleasures : these are 

When once we come to full fruition. 
Like waking in a Morning when all Night 
Our Fancy hath been fed with true Delight. 
Oh ! what a Stroke 'twould be ! sure I should die, 
Should I but hear my Mistress once say ay. 
That Monster Expectation feeds too high 
For any Woman e'er to satisfy : 
And no brave Spirit ever cared for that 
Which in down Beds with Ease he could come at ; 
She's but an honest Whore that yields, although 
She be as cold as Ice, as pure as Snow : 
He that enjoys her hath no more to say, 
But keeps us fasting, if you'll have us pray. 
Then, fairest Mistress, hold the Power you have 
By still denying what we still do crave : 
In keeping us in Hopes strange Things to see 
That never were, nor are, nor e'er shall be. 

Love, Reason, Hate did once bespeak 

Three Mates to play at Barley-break. 

Love Folly took, and Reason Fancy ; 

And Hate consorts with Pride ; so dance they. 

Love coupled last, and so it fell 

That Love and Folly were in Hell. 

They break, and Love would Reason meet, 
But Hate was nimbler on her feet : 
Fancy looks for Pride and whither 
Hies, and they two hug together, 
Yet this new coupling still doth tell 
That Love and Folly were in Hell. 

The rest do break again, and Pride 
Hath now got Reason on her side ; 
P. 4 B 17 

Sir John Suckling 

Hate and Fancy meet, and stand 
Untouch'd by Love in Folly's hand : 
Folly was dull, but Love ran well, 
So Love and Folly were in Hell. 

'Tis now since I sat down before 

That foolish Fort a Heart, 
(Time strangely spent) a Year and more, 

And still I did my Part. 

Made my Approaches, from her Hand, 

Unto her Lip did rise, 
And did already understand 

The Language of her Eyes. 

Proceeded on with no less Art, 

My Tongue was Engineer ; 
I thought to undermine the Heart 

By whispering in the Ear. 

When this did Nothing, I brought down 
Great cannon-oaths, and shot 

A thousand thousand to the Town, 
And still it yielded not 

I then resolv'd to starve the Place 

By cutting off all kisses, 
Praying and gazing in her Face, 

And all such little Blisses. 

To draw her out, and from her Strength, 

I drew all Batteries in ; 
And brought myself to lie at length 

As if no siege had been. 

When I had done what Man could do, 
And thought the Place mine own, 

The Enemy lay quiet too 
And smiled at all was done. 

Sir John Suckling 

I sent to know from whence and where 

These Hopes and this Relief? 
A Spy inform'd, Honour was there 

And did command in Chief. 

March, march, quoth I, the Word straight give, 
Let's lose no Time but leave her ; 

That Grant upon Air will live, 
And hold it out for ever. 

To such a Place our Camp remove, 

As will no Siege abide ; 
I hate a Fool that starves her Love, 

Only to feed her Pride. 

Ballad on a Wedding 

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, 
Where I the rarest Things have seen, 

O, Things without Compare ! 
Such Sights again cannot be found 
In any Place on English Ground, 

Be it at Wake or Fair. 

At Charing Cross, hard by the Way 
Where we (thou know*st) do sell our Hay 

There is a House with Stairs ; 
And there did I see coming down 
Such Folk as are not in our Town, 
. Forty, at least, in Pairs. 

Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine 
(His Beard no bigger though than thine) 

Walk'd on before the Best ; 
Our Landlord looks like nothing to him. 
The King (God bless him I) 'twould undo him 

Should he go still so drest. 


Sir John Suckling 

At Course-a-Park, without all Doubt 
He should have first been taken out 

By all the Maids i' th' Town : 
Though lusty Roger there had been, 
Or Little George upon the Green, . 

Or Vincent of the Crown. 

But wot you what ? the Youth was going 
To make an End of all the wooing ; 

The Parson for him stayed ; 
Yet by his Leave (for all his Haste) 
He did not so much wish all past 

(Perchance) as did the Maid. 

The Maid, (and thereby hangs a Tale), 
For such a Maid no Whitsun Ale 

Could ever yet produce : 
No Grape, that's kindly ripe, could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 

Nor half so full of Juice. 

Her Finger was so small, the Ring 
Would not stay on, which they did bring, 

It was too wide a Peck, 
And, to say Truth, (for out it must), 
It looked like the great Collar just 

About our young colt's Neck. 

Her Feet beneath her Petticoat, 
Like little Mice, stole in and out, 

As if they fear'd the Light ; 
But O I she dances such a Way, 
No Sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a Sight. 

He would have kissed her once or twice 
But she would not, she was so nice, 

She would not do't in Sight, 
And then she lookU as who should say : 
I will do what I list to-day 

And you shall do't at Night. 

Sir John Suckling 

Her Cheeks so rare a White was on, 
No Daisy makes Comparison, 

(Who sees them is undone), 
For Streaks of Red were mingled there 
Such as are on a Catherine Pear, 

(The Side that's next the Sun). 

Her Lips were Red and one was thin 
Compared to that was next her Chin 

(Some Bee had stung it newly) 
But, Dick, her Eyes so guard her Face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze 

Than on the Sun in July. 

Her Mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'dst swear her Teeth her Words did break, 

That they might Passage get, 
But she so handled still the Matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a Whit. 

If Wishing should be any Sin, 
The Parson himself had guilty been 

(She looked that Day so purely) ; 
And did the Youth so oft the Feat 
At Night, as some did in concert,^ 

It would have spoil'd him surely. 

Just in the Nick the Cook knocked thrice, 
And all the Waiters in a trice 

His Summons did obey ; 
Each Serving-man, with Dish in Hand 
March'd boldly up like our train'd Band, 

Presented and away. 

When all the Meat was on the Table 
What Man of Knife or Teeth was able 

To stay to be intreated ? 
And this the very Reason was : 
Before the Parson could say Grace, 

The Company was seated. 

Sir John Suckling 

The Business of the Kitchen's great 
For it is fit that Men should eat ; 

Nor was it there deny'd ; 
Passion o* me, how I run on ! 
There's that that would be thought upon 

(I trow) beside the Bride. 

Now Hats fly off and Youths carouse, 
Healths first go round and then the House, 

The Bride's came thick and thick : 
And when 'twas nam'd another's Health, 
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 

And who could help it, Dick ? 

On the sudden up, they rise and dance ; 
Then sit again and sigh and glance, 

Then dance again and kiss : 
Thus several Ways the Time did pass 
Whil'st ev*ry Woman wish'd her place 

And ev'ry Man wish'd his. 

By this Time all were stolen aside, 
To counsel and undress the Bride ; 

But that he must not know, 
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her Mind, 
And did not mean to stay behind 

Above an Hour or so. 

When he came in, Dick, there she lay 
Like new fall'n snow melting away, 

('Twas Time, I trow, to part) 
Kisses were now the only Stay 
Which soon she gave as who would say 

God b' w* y' ! with all my Heart. 

But just as Heav'n would have to cross it 
In came the Bride with the Posset : 

The Bridegroom ate in spite, 
For, had he left the Women to't, 
It would have cost two Hours to do't, 

Which were too much that Night 

Sir John Suckling 

At length the candle's out, and now 
All that they had not done they do : 

What that is who can tell ? 
But I believe it was no more 
Than thou and I have done before 

With Bridget and with Nell. 

Honest Lover, whatsoever, 
If in all thy Love there ever 
Was one wav'ring Thought, if thy Flame 
Were not still even, still the same : 
Know this, 

Thou lov'st amiss, 

And, to love true, 
Thou must begin again, and love anew. 

If when she appears i' th' Room, 
Thou dost not quake and are struck dumb, 
And in striving this to cover, 
Dost not speak thy Words twice over, 
Know this, 

Thou lov'st amiss, 

And to love true 
Thou must begin again, and love anew. 

If fondly thou dost not mistake, 
And all Defects for Graces take, 
Persuad'st thyself that Jests are broken, 
When she has Little or Nothing spoken, 
Know this, 

Thou lov'st amiss, 

And to love true 
Thou must begin again and love anew. 

If when thou appear'st to be within, 
Thou let'st Men ask and ask again ; 
And when thou answerest, if it be, 
To what was asked thee, properly, 

Sir John Suckling 

Know this, 
Thou lov'st amiss, 
And to love true 
Thou must begin and love anew. 

If when thy Stomach calls to eat, 
Thou cutt'st not Fingers 'stead of Meat, 
And with much gazing on her Face 
Dost not rise hungry from the Place, 
Know this, 

Thou lov'st amiss, 

And, to love true, 
Thou must begin again and fove anew. 

If by this thou dost discover 
That thou art no perfect Lover, 
And, desiring to love true, 
Thou dost begin to love anew : 
Know this, 

Thou lov'st amiss, 

And, to love true, 
Thou must begin again and love anew. 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole Days together ; 

And am like to love three more, 
If it prove fair Weather. 

Time shall moult away his Wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide World again 

Such a constant Lover. 

But the Spite on't, is, no Praise 

Is due at all to me : 
Love with me had made no Stays, 

Had it any been but she. 


Sir John Suckling 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very Face, 
There had beea at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her Place. 

Love turn'd to Hatred 

I will not love one Minute more, I swear, 
No, not a Minute ; nor a Sigh or Tear 
Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again, 
Though thou should'st court me to't, and would'st 

I will not think of thee, but as Men do 
Of Debts and Sins, and then I'll curse thee too. 
For thy sake Women shall be now to me 
Less welcome than as Midnight Ghosts shall be : 
I'll hate so perfectly, that it shall be 
Treason to love that Man that loves a she ; 
Nay, I will hate the very Good, I swear, 
That's in thy Sex, because it doth lie there ; 
Their very virtue, Grace, Discourse and Wit, 
And all for thee ; what, wilt thou love me yet ? 

The Careless Lover 

Never believe me if I love, 

Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove ; 

And yet in Faith, I lie, I do, 

And she's extremely handsome too, 

She's fair, she's wondrous fair, 

But I care not who know it : 

Ere I'll die for Love, 111 fairly forego it. 

This Heat of Hope or Cold or Fear 
My fbolish Heart could never bear : 


Sir John Suckling 

One Sigh imprison'd ruins more 
Than Earthquakes have done heretofore : 
She's fair, etc. 

When I am hungry, I do eat 
And cut no Fingers 'stead of meat ; 
Nor, with much Gazing on her Face 
Do e'er rise hungry from the Place. 
She's fair, etc. 

A gentle Round filPd to the Brink 
To this and t'other Friend I drink ; 
And when 'tis nam'd another's Health, 
I never make it hers by Stealth. 
She's fair, etc. 

Blackfriars to me and old Whitehall 
Is even as much as is the Fall 
Of Fountains on a pathless Grove, 
And nourishes as much my Love. 
She's fair, etc. 

I visit, talk, do Business, play, 
And, for a need, laugh out a Day : 
Who does not thus in Cupid's school, 
He makes not Love, but plays the Fool. 
She's fair, etc. 

Love and Debt alike 

This one Request I make to him that sits the Clouds 

That I were freely out of Debt, as I am out of Love ; 
Then for to dance, to drink and sing, I should be very 

I should not owe a Lass a Kiss, nor ne'er a Knave a 



Sir John Suckling 

'Tis only being in Love and Debt that breaks us of 

our Rest, 
And he that is quite out of both, of all the World is 

blest : 
He sees the Golden Age, wherein all Things were 

free and common, 
He eats, he drinks, he takes his Rest, he fears no Man 

or Woman. 
Though Croesus compassed great Wealth, yet he still 

craved more, 
He was as needy a Beggar still, as goes from Door to 

Though Ovid were a merry Man, Love ever kept him 

He was as far from Happiness as one that is stark 

Our Merchant, he in Goods is rich, and full of Gold 

and Treasure, 
But when he thinks upon his Debts, that Thought de- 
stroys his Pleasure. 
Our Courtier thinks that he's preferr'd, whom every 

Man envies ; 
When Love so rumbles in his Pate, no Sleep comes in 

his Eyes. 
Our Gallant's Case is worst of all, he lies so just be- 
twixt them, 
For he's in Love and he's in Debt, and knows not 

which most vex'th him. 
But he that can eat Beef and feed on Bread which is 

so brown. 
May satisfy his Appetite, and owe no man a Crown : 
And he that is content with Lasses clothed in plain 

May cool his Heat in every Place, he need not to be 

Nor sigh for Love of Lady fair ; for this each wise 

Man knows : 
As good Stuff under Flannel lies as under silken 



Sir John Suckling 
Loves Representation 

Leaning her Head upon my Breast 
There on Love's Bed she lay to rest ; 
My panting Heart rock'd her asleep, 
My heedful Eyes the Watch did keep ; 
Then Love by me being harboured there, 
In Hope to be his Harbinger, 
Desire his Rival kept the Door, 
For this of him I begged no more, 
But that our Mistress to entertain, 
Some pretty Fancy he would frame, 
And represent it in a Dream 
Of which myself should give the Theme. 
Then first these Thoughts I bid him show 
Which only he and I did know, 
Arra/d in Duty and Respect, 
And not in Fancies that reflect, 
Then those of Value next present, 
Approv'd by all the World's Consent ; 
But to distinguish mine asunder, 
ApparelPd they must be in Wonder. 
Such a Device then I would have 
As Service, not Reward, should crave, 
AttirM in spotless Innocence, 
Not Self-respect, nor no Pretence ; 
Then such a Faith I would have shown 
And heretofore was never known. 
Cloth'd with a constant, clear Intent, 
Professing always as it meant ; 
And if Love no such Garments have, 
My Mind a Wardrobe is so brave, 
That there sufficient he may see 
To clothe Impossibility. 
Then beamy Fetters he shall find, 
By Admiration subtly twined, 
That will keep fast the wanton'st Thought 
That e'er Imagination wrought : 

Sir John Suckling 

There he shall find of Joy a Chain, 

Framed by Despair of her Disdain 

So curiously that it can't tie 

The smallest Hopes that Thoughts now spy. 

There Acts, as glorious as the Sun, 

Are by her Veneration spun, 

In one of which I would have brought 

A pure, unspotted, abstract Thought 

Considering her as she is good. 

Not in her Frame of Flesh and Blood ; 

These Atoms, then, all in her Sight, 

I bade him join, that so he might 

Discern between true Love's Creation 

And that Love's Form that's now in Fashion. 

Love, granting unto my Request, 

Began to labour in my Breast ; 

But with this Motion he did make, 

It heaved so high that she did wake, 

Blush'd at the Favour she had done, 

Then smiled and then away did run. 

To a Lady who forbade to 
love before Company 

What ! no more Favours ? Not a Ribbon more, 
Not Fan nor Muff to hold as heretofore ? 
Must all the little Blisses then be left, 
And what was once Love's Gift, become our Theft ? 
May we not look ourselves into a Trance, 
Teach our Souls Parley at our Eyes, not glance, 
Not touch the Hand, not by soft Wringing there 
Whisper a Love that only yes can hear ? 
Not free a Sigh, a Sigh thaf s there for you ? 
Dear, must I love you, and not love you too ? 
Be wise, nice, fair : for sooner shall they trace 
The feather'd Choristers from Place to Place, 

Sir John Suckling 

By Points they make in th' Air, and sooner say 
By what right Line the last Star made his Way 
That fled from Heaven to Earth, than guess to know 
How our Loves first did spring, or how they grow. 
Love is all Spirit : Fairies sooner may 
Be taken tardy when they Night-tricks play, 
Than we, we are too dull and lumpish rather. . . . 

The crafty Boy that had full oft assayM 
To pierce my stubborn and resisting Breast, 
But still the Bluntness of his Darts betra/d, 
Resolv'd at last of setting up his Rest, 
Either my wild, unruly Heart to tame, 
Or quit his Godhead and his Bow disclaim. 

So all his lovely Looks, his pleasing Fires, 
All his sweet Motions, all his taking Smiles, 
All that awakes, all that inflames Desires, 
All that by sweet Commands, all that beguiles, 
He does into one Pair of Eyes convey, 
And there begs Leave that he himself may stay. 

And there he brings me where his Ambush lay, 
Secure and careless to a stranger Land ; 
And, never warning me, which was foul Play, 
Does make me close by all this Beauty stand. 
Where first struck dead, I did at last recover, 
To know that I might only live to love her. 

So I'll be sworn I do, and do confess 

The blind Lad's Power whilst he inhabits there ; 

But I'll be even with him nevertheless, 

If e'er I chance to meet with him elsewhere. 

If other Eyes invite the Boy to tarry, 

I'll fly to hers as to a Sanctuary. 


Sir John Suckling 

I prithee send me back my Heart, 

Since I cannot have thine, 
For, if from yours you will not part, 

Why then shoul6?st thou have mine ? 

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie 

To find it were in vain, 
For th' hast a Thief in either Eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two Hearts in one Breast lie, 

And yet not lodge together ? 
O Love where is thy Sympathy 

If thus our Breasts thou sever ? 

But Love is such a Mystery, 

I cannot find it out ; 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am in most Doubt. 

Then Farewell Care and Farewell Woe, 

I will no longer pine : 
For I'll believe I have her Heart, 

As much as she hath mine. 

I am confirm'd a Woman can 
Love this, or that, or any Man ; 
This Way she's melting hot, 
To-morrow swears she knows you not ; 
If she but a new Object find, 
Then straight she's of another Mind. 
Then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, 
If e'er I dote upon you more. 

If still I love the fairsome (why ? 
For nothing but to please my Eye) ; 


Sir John Suckling 

And so the fat and soft-skinn'd Dame 
I'll flatter to appease my Flame ; 
For she that's musical I'll long 
When I am sad to sing a Song, 
Then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, 
If e'er I dote upon you more. 

I'll give my Fancy Leave to range 
Through everywhere to find out Change, 
The Black, the Brown, the Fair shall be 
But Objects of Variety : 
I'll court you all to serve my Turn, 
But with such Flames as shall not burn- 
Then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, 
If e'er I dote upon you more. 

I prithee spare me, gentle Boy, 

Press me no more for that slight Toy, 

That foolish Trifle of a Heart ; 

I swear it will not do its Part, 

Though thou dost thine, emplo/st thy Power and Art. 

For through long Custom it aas known 

The little Secrets, and is grown 

Sullen and wise, will have its Will, 

And, like old Hawks, pursues that still 

That makes least Sport, flies only where't can kill. 

Some Youth that has not made his Story, 
Will think, perchance, the Pain's the Glory ; 
And mannerly fit out Love's Feast ; 
I shall be carving of the best, 
Rudely call for the last Course 'fore the Rest. 

Sir John Suckling 

And, O, when once that Course is past, 
How short a Time the Feast doth last ! 
Men rise away, and scarce say Grace, 
Or civilly once thank the Face 
That did invite, but seek another Place. 

When, dearest, I but think of thee, 
Methinks all Things that lovely be 
Are present and my Soul delighted : 
For Beauties that from Worth arise 
Are like the Grace of Deities, 
Still present, though unsighted. 

Thus whilst I sit and sigh the Day 
With all his borrowed Lights away, 
Till Night's black Wings do overtake me, 
Thinking on thee, thy Beauties then, 
As sudden Lights do sleeping Men, 
So they by their bright Rays awake me. 

Thus Absence dies, and dying proves 
No Absence can subsist with Loves 
That do partake of fair Perfection ; 
Since in the darkest Night they may 
By Love's quick Motion find a Way 
To see each other by Reflection. 

The waving Sea can with each Flood 
Bathe some high Promont that hath stood 
Far from the Main up in the River : 
Oh, think not then but Love can do 
As much, for that's an Ocean too, 
Which flows not every day but ever ! 

Hast thou seen the Down in the Air 
When wanton Blasts have toss'd it ? 

Or the Ship on the Sea, 

When ruder Winds have cross'd it ? 
P*c 33 

Sir John Suckling 

Hast thou mark'd the Crocodile's Weeping, 
Or the Fox's Sleeping ? 

Or hast viewed the Peacock in his Pride, 
Or the Dove by his Bride, 
When he courts for his Lechery ? 

O so fickle, O so vain, O so false, so false is she ! 
— The Sad One, Act IV. sc. hi. 

His Dream 

On a still silent Night scarce could I number 
One of the Clock, but that a golden Slumber 
Had locked my Senses fast, and carried me 
Into a World of blest Felicity, 
I know not how : first to a Garden, where 
The Apricot, the Cherry, and the Pear, 
The Strawberry and Plum, were fairer far 
Than that eye-pleasing Fruit that caused the Jar 
Betwixt the Goddesses, and tempted more 
Than fair Atlanta's Ball, though gilded o'er. 

I gazed awhile on these, and presently 

A silver Stream ran softly gliding by, 

Upon whose Banks, Lilies more white than Snow, 

New fallen from Heaven, with Violets mixed, did 

Whose Scent so chafed the Neighbour-air, that you 
Would softly swear that Arabic Spices grew 
Not far from thence, or that the Place had been 
With Musk prepared, to entertain Love's Queen. 
Whilst I admired, the River passed away, 
And up a Grove did spring, green as in May. 

When April had been moist ; upon whose Bushes 
The pretty Robins, Nightingales and Thrushes 
Warbled their Notes so sweetly, that my Ears 
Did judge at least the Music of the Spheres. 


Sir John Suckling 

But here my gentle Dream conveyed me 
Into the Place where I most longed to see, 
My Mistress' Bed ; who some few Blushes past 
And smiling Frowns, contented was at last 
To let me Touch her Neck ; I, not content 
With that, slipped to her Breasts, . . . 
And then 1 waked. 

Brennoralt Gazing on 
Francelia Asleep 

So Misers look upon their Gold, which while 
They joy to see, they fear to lose ; the Pleasure 
O* the Sight scarce equalling the Jealousy 
Of being dispossess'd by Others. 
Her Face is like the Milky Way i' th' Sky, 
A Meeting of gentle Lights without Name. 
Heavens ! shall this fresh Ornament 
Of the World, this precious Loveliness 
Pass, with other common Things, among'st 
The Wastes of Time ? What Pity 'twere ! 

— Brennoralt^ Act III. 


Sir John Suckling 

No, no, fair Heretic, it needs must be 

But an Ill-love in me 

And worse for thee. 
For were it in my Pow'r, 
To love thee now this Hour 

More than I did the last : 

I would then so fall 

I might not love at all 
Love that can flow and can admit Increase, 
Admits as well an Ebb, and may grow less. 

True Love is still the same, the torrid Zones, 

And those more frigid ones, 

It must not know. 
For Love grown cold or hot 
Is Lust or Friendship, not 

The Thing we have. 
For that's a Flame would die, 
Held down or up too high : 
Then think I love more than I can express, 
And would love more, could I but love thee less. 
— Aglaura^ Act. IV. sc. i. 

The Metamorphosis 

THE little Boy, to show his Might and Power, 
Turn'd Io to a Cow, Narcissus to a Flower ; 
Transform'd Apollo to a homely Swain, 
And Jove himself into a Golden Rain. 
These Shapes were tolerable, but, by the Mass, 
He's metamorphosed me into an Ass. 


Sir John Suckling 
A Soldier 

I am a Man of War and Might 
And know thus much that I can fight, 
Whether I am i' th' Wrong or Right, 

No woman under Heaven I fear, 
New Oaths I can exactly swear, 
And forty Healths my Brain will bear 
Most stoutly. 

I cannot speak, but I can do 
As much as any of our Crew, 
And, if you doubt it, some of you 

May prove me. 

I dare be bold thus much to say, 
If that my Bullets do but play, 
You would be hurt so Night and Day, 
Yet love me. 

The Expostulation 

Tell me, ye juster Deities, 
That pity Lovers' Miseries, 
Why should my own Unworthiness 
Fright me to seek my Happiness ? 
It is as natural as just 
Him for to love, whom needs I must 
All Men confess that Love's a Fire, 
Then who denies it to aspire ? 

Tell me if thou wert Fortune's Thrall, 
Would'st thou not raise thee from the Fall ? 


Sir John Suckling 

Seek only to overlook thy State, 

Whereto thou art condemn'd by Fate ? 

Then let me love my Corydon, 

By Love's Leave, him love alone : 

For I have read of Stories oft 

That Love hath Wings, and soars aloft. 

Then let me grow in my Desire, 

Though I be martyr'd in that Fire ; 

For Grace it is enough for me 

But only to love such as he : 

For never shall my Thoughts be base, 

Though luckless, yet without Disgrace : 

Then let him that my Love shall blame 

Or clip Love's Wings or quench Love's Flame. 

To Master John Hales of 


Whether these Lines do you find out 
Putting or clearing of a Doubt, 
(Whether Predestination 
Or reconciling Three in One, 
Or the Unriddling how Men die, 
And live at once eternally 
Now take you up) know 'tis decreed 
You straight bestride the College-steed : 
Leave Socinus and the Schoolmen 
(Which Jack Bond swears do but fool Men), 
And come to Town ; 'tis fit you show 
Yourself abroad, that Men may know 
(Whatever some learned Men have guess'd) 
That Oracles are not yet ceas'd : 
There you shall find the Wit and Wine 
Flowing alike and both divine — 


Sir John Suckling 

Dishes with Names not known in Books, 
And less among the College-Cooks, 
With Sauce so pregnant that you need 
Not stay till Hunger bids you feed. 
The Sweat of learned J on son's Brain, 
And gentle Shakespeare's easier Strain, 
A Hackney-coach conveys you to, 
In Spite of all that Rain can do ; 
And for your Eighteenpence you sit 
The Lord and Judge of all fresh Wit. 
News in one Day as much w* have here 
As serves all Windsor for a Year, 
And which the Carrier brings to you 
After t' has here been found not true. 
Then think what Company's design'd 
To meet you here, Men so refin'd ; 
Their very common talk at Board 
Makes wise or mad a young Court-lord, 
And makes him capable to be 
Umpire in 's Father's Company. 
Where no Disputes nor forced Defence 
Of a Man's Person for his Sense 
Take up the Time ; all strive to be 
Masters of Truth, as Victory : 
And where you come, I'd boldly swear 
A Synod might as eas'ly err. 

Why so pale and wan, fond Lover ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young Sinner ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do 't ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 


Sir John Suckling 

Quit, quit, for Shame, this will not move, 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her— 

The Devil take her ! 

— Aglaura % Act IV. sc i. 

Fill it up, fill it up to the Brink, 
When the Pots cry Clink, 
And the Pockets chink, 
Then 'tis a merry World ! 

To the best, to the best, have at her ! 
And a Pox take the Woman-hater ! 
The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman : 
Mahuy Mahu 1 is his Name. 

—The Goblins, Act III. 

Come, let the State stay, 
And drink away : 
There is no Business above it, 
It warms the cold Brain, 
Makes us speak in high Strain : 
He's a Fool that does not approve it. 
The Macedon Youth 
Left behind him this Truth, 
That Nothing is done with much Thinking,— 
He drank and he fought 
Till he had what he sought, 
The World was his own by hard Drinking. 
— Brennoralt % Act II. sc. i. 

i This comes from King Lear (III. iv.) where poor Tom 
sings — 

" The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman, 
Modo he's called and Mahu." 

Elsewhere, however (IV. i.), he is the tributary fiend of theft. 

Sir John Suckling 

She's pretty to walk with, 
And witty to talk with, 
I And pleasant too to think on ; 

! But the best Use of all 

| Is, her Health is a Stale, 

And helps us to make us drink on. 
f BrennorcUty Act II. sc. i. 


Sir Charles Sedley 

Phillis, Men say that all my Vows 

Are to thy Fortune paid ; 
Alas ! my Heart he little knows 

Who thinks my Love a Trade. 

Were I of all these Woods the Lord, 
One Berry from thy Hand 

More real Pleasure would afford 
Than all my large Command. 

My humble Love has learnt to live 

On what the nicest Maid, 
Without a conscious Blush, may give 

Beneath the Myrtle Shade. 

Phillis is my only Joy, 

Faithless as the Winds or Seas, 
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to please ; 
If with a Frown 
I am cast down, 
Phillis smiling 
And beguiling, 
Makes me happier than before. 

Though, alas ! too late I find 
Nothing can her Fancy ^x y 

Yet the Moment she is kind, 
I forgive her all her Tricks ; 


Sir Charles Sedley 

Which, though I see, 
I can't get free ; 
She deceiving, 
I believing : 
What need Lovers wish for more ? 

Hears not my Phillis how the Birds 
Their feather^ Mates salute? 

They tell their Passion in their Words : 
Must I alone be mute ? 

Phillis, without Frown or Smile, 

Sat and knotted all the while. 

The God of Love in thy bright Eyes 

Does like a Tyrant reign, 
But in thy Heart a Child he lies 

Without his Dart or Flame. 
Phillis, without Frown or Smile, 
Sat and knotted all the while. 

So many Months in Silence pass'd 

And yet in raging Love, 
Might well deserve one Word at last 

My Passion should approve. 
Phillis, without Frown or Smile, 
Sat and knotted all the while. 

Must then your faithful Swain expire, 

And not one Look obtain, 
Which he, to soothe his fond Desire, 

Might pleasingly explain ? 
Phillis, without Frown or Smile, 
Sat and knotted all the while. 


Sir Charles Sedley 

To a Devout Young 

Phillis, this early Zeal assuage, 

You over-act your Part ; 
The Martyrs at your Tender Age 

Gave Heav'n but half their Heart. 

Old Men (till past the Pleasure) ne'er 

Declaim against the Sin ; 
'Tis early to begin to fear 

The Devil at Fifteen. 

The World to Youth is too severe, 
And, like a treacherous Light, 

Beauty the Actions of the Fair 
Exposes to their Sight 

And yet this World, as old as 'tis, 

Is oft deceived by 't too j 
Kind Combinations seldom miss, 

Lef s try what we can do. 

The Extravagant 

I AM a lusty, lively Lad 

Arriv'd at One and Twenty, 
My Father left me all he had, 

Both Gold and Silver plenty. 
Now he's in Grave, I will be brave, 

The Ladies shall adore me : 
I'll court and kiss, what Harm's in this ? 

My Dad did so before me. 


Sir Charles Sedley 

My Father to get my Estate, 

Though selfish yet was slavish ; 
I'll spend it at another Rate, 

And be as lewdly lavish. 
From Madmen, Fools and Knaves he did 

Litigiously receive it ; 
If so he did Justice forbid, 

But I to such should leave it. 

Then I'll to Court, where Venus' Sport 

Doth revel it in Plenty, 
And deal with all both great and small 

From Twelve to Five and Twenty. 
In Playhouses I'll spend my Days, 

For there are Store of Misses — 
Ladies, make Room, behold I come 

To purchase many Kisses. 

The Forward Lover 

Tush ! never tell me I'm too young 

For loving, or too green ; 
She stays at least seven Years too long, 

That's wedded at Eighteen. 
Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves, 

As soon as they're begotten : 
Then why should ladies linger Loves, 

As if not ripe till rotten ? 

Grey Hairs are fitter for the Grave 

Than for the bridal Bed, 
What Pleasure can a Lover have 

In a wither'd Maidenhead? 
Nature's exalted in our Time, 

And what our Grandames then 
At Four and Twenty scarce could climb, 

We can arrive at Ten. 


Sir Charles Sedley 

Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit 

As unconcern'd, as when 
Your infant Beauty could beget 

No Pleasure nor no Pain. 

When I the Dawn used to admire, 
And praised the coming Day, 

I little thought the growing Fire 
Must take my Rest away. 

Your Charms in harmless Childhood lay, 

Like Metals in the Mine : 
Age from no Face took more away, 

Than Youth conceaFd in thine. 

But as your Charms insensibly 

To their Perfection press'd, 
Fond Love as unperceiv'd did fly, 

And in my Bosom rest. 

My Passion with your Beauty grew, 

And Cupid at my Heart, 
Still as his Mother favoured you, 

Threw a new flaming Dart. 

Each gloried in their wanton Part ; 

To make a Lover, he 
Employed the utmost of his Art — 

To make a Beauty she. 

Though now I slowly bend to Love, 

Uncertain of my Fate, 
If your fair Self my Chains approve, 

I shall my Freedom hate. 

Lovers, like dying Men, may well 

At first disordered be ; 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What Fortune they must see. 

Sir Charles Sedley 

Love still has something of the Sea, 
From whence his Mother rose, 

No Time his Slaves from Doubt can free, 
Nor give their Thoughts Repose. 

They are becalm'd in clearest Days, 

And in rough Weather tost ; 
They wither under cold Delays, 

Or are in Tempests lost 

One while they seem to touch the Port, 

Then straight into the Main 
Some angry Wind in cruel Sport 

The Vessel drives again. 

At first Disdain and Pride they fear, 
Which, if they chance to 'scape, 

Rivals and Falsehood soon appear 
In a more dreadful Shape. 

By such Degrees to Joy they come, 

And are so long withstood, 
So slowly they receive the Sum, 

It hardly does them good. 

'Tis cruel to prolong a Pain, 

And to defer a Joy, 
Believe me, gentle Celemene 

Offends the winged Boy. 

An hundred thousand Oaths your Fears 

Perhaps would not remove, 
And if I gazed a thousand years 

I could no deeper love. 

Fair Aminta, art thou mad 
To let the World in me 

Envy Joys I never had, 
And censure them in thee? 


Sir Charles Sedley > 


Fill'd with Grief for what is past, 

Let us at length be wise, 
And to Love's true Enjoyments haste 

Since we have paid the Price. 

Love does easy Souls despise, 

Who lose themselves for Toys, 
And Escape for those devise, 

Who taste his utmost Joys. 

Love should, like the Year, be crown'd 

With sweet Variety ; 
Hope should in the Spring abound, 

Kind Fears and Jealousie. 

In the Summer Flow , rs should rise 

And in the Autumn Fruit ; 
His Spring doth else but mock our Eyes, 

And in a Scoff salute. 

Advice to the Old Beaux 

Scrape no more your harmless Chins 

Old Beaux in Hope to please ; 
You should repent your former Sins, 

Not study their Increase : 
Young awkward Tops may shock our Sight 
But you offend by Day and Night 

In vain the Coachman turns about 

And whips the dappled Bays, 
When the old Ogler looks out 

We turn away our Face. 
True Love and Youth will ever charm 
But, doth affected, cannot warm. 

Sir Charles Sedley 

Summer Fruits we highly prize, 
They kindly cool the Blood ; 

But Winter Berries we despise, 
And leave 'em in the Wood : 

On the Bush they may look well, 

But, gather 3 d, lose both Taste and Smell. 

That you languish, that you die, 

Alas ! is but too true : 
Yet tax us not with Cruelty, 

Who daily pity you. 
Nature henceforth alone accuse, 
In vain we grant, if she refuse. 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the Rest, 
For I would change each Hour like them 

Were not my Heart at Rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every Thought I have, 
Thy Face I only care to see, 

Thy Heart I only crave. 

All that in Woman is ador'd 

In thy dear Self I find, 
For the whole Sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek farther Store, 

And still make Love anew ? 
When Change itself can give no more 

'Tis easy to be true. 

P*D 49 

John Wilmot, Earl of 

All my past Life is mine no more, 

The flying Hours are gone ; 
Like transitory Dreams ^iv'n o'er 
Whose Images are kept in Store 
By Memory alone. 

The Time that is to come is not, 

How can it then be mine, 
The present Moment's all my Lot, 
And that, as fast as it is got, 
Is, Phillis, only thine. 

Then talk not of Inconstancy, 
False Hearts and broken Vows, 

If I by Miracle can be 

This live-long Minute, true to thee, 
'Tis all that HeaVn allows. 

To Corinna 

What cruel Pains Corinna takes, 
To force that harmless Frown, 

When not one Charm her Face forsakes 
Love cannot lose his own. 


John Wilmot 

So sweet a Face, so soft a Heart, 

Such Eyes so very kind, 
Betray, alas ! the silly Art 

Virtue had ill-design'd. 

Poor feeble Tyrant ! who in vain 
Would proudly take upon her 

Against kind Nature to maintain 
Officious Rules of Honour. 

The scorn she bears so helpless proves 
When I plead Passion to her, 

That much she fears (but more she loves) 
Her Vassal should undo her. 

Room, Room for a Blade of the Town 
That takes Delight in Roaring, 

Who all Day long rambles up and down, 
And at night in the Streets lies snoring. 

That for the noble Name of Spark 

Does his Companions rally, 
Commits an Outrage in the Dark, 

Then slinks into an Alley. 

To every Female that he meets, 
He swears he bears Affection, 

Defies all Laws, Arrests and Cheats 
By the Help of a kind Protection. 

When he intending further Wrongs 

By some resenting Cully, 
Is decently run through the Lungs, 

And there's an End of Bully. 

An Age in her Embraces past 

Would seem a Winter's Day, 
Where Light and Life with envious Haste 

Are torn and snatcht away. 


John Wilmot 

But oh how slowly Minutes roll 

When absent from her Eyes 
That fed my Love which is my Soul, 

It languishes and dies. 

For then no more a Soul but Shade, 

It mournfully doth move, 
And haunts my Breast, by Absence made 

The living Tomb of Love. 

You wiser Men, despise me not, 

Whose Love-sick Fancy raves 
On Shades of Souls and Heav'n knows what, 

Short Ages live in Graves : 

Whene'er those wounding Eyes, so full 

Of Sweetness, you did see, 
Had you not been profoundly dull, 

You had gone mad like me. 

Phillis, be gentler, I advise, 

Make up for Time mis-spent, 
When Beauty on her Death-bed lies, 

'Tis high Time to repent 

Such is the Malice of your Fate, 

That makes you old so soon, 
Your Pleasure ever comes too late 

However soon begun. 

Think what a wretched thing is she 

Whose Stars contrive in Spite. 
The Morning of her Love should be 

Her fading Beauty's Night. 

Then, if to make your Ruin more, 

You'll peevishly be coy, 
Die with the Scandal of a Whore, 

And never know the Joy. 


John Wilmot 

Nor censure us you who perceive 

My Best-Beloved and me 
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve : 

You think we disagree. 

Alas ! 'tis sacred Jealousy 

Love raised to an Extreme : 
The only Proof 'twixt them and me 

We love and do not dream. 

Fantastic Fancies fondly move 

And in frail Joys believe, 
Taking false Pleasure for true Love ; 

But Pain can ne'er deceive. 

Kind, jealous Doubts, tormenting, 
And anxious Cares when past, 

Prove our Heart's Treasure fix'd and dear 
And make us blest at last. 

Grecian Kindness 

The utmost Grace the Greeks could show 
When to the Trojans they grew kind, 

Was, with their Arms, to let 'em go, 
And leave their lingering Wives behind ; 

They beat the Men and burnt the Town, 

Then all the Baggage was their own. 

There the kind Deity of Wine 
Kiss'd the soft wanton God of Love : 

This clapp'd his Wings, that press'd his Vine, 
And their best powers united move. 

While each brave Greek embraced his Punk, 

Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk. 


John Wilmot 
Woman's Honour 

Love bid me hope, and I obeyed ; 

Phillis continued still unkind : 
" Then you may e'en despair," he said, 

" In vain I strive to change her Mind ; 

Honour's got in and keeps her Heart, 
Durst he but venture once abroad, 

In my own Right I'd take your Part 
And show myself a mightier God. 

This huffing Honour domineers 
In Breasts where he alone has Place : 

But if true generous Love appears, 
The Hector dares not show his Face. 

Let me still languish and complain, 

Be most inhumanly den/d, 
I have some Pleasure in my Pain, 

She can have none with all her Pride. 

I fall a Sacrifice to Love, 

She lives a Wretch for Honour's Sake : 
Whose Tyrant does most cruel prove, 

The difFrence is not hard to make. 

Consider real Honour then, 

You'll find hers cannot be the same ; 
'Tis noble Confidence in Men, 

In Women mean distrustful Shame." 

The Fall 

How blest was the created State 
Of Man and Woman ere they fell ! 

Compared to our unhappy Fate ; 
We need not fear another Hell ! 


John Wilmot 

Naked, beneath cool shades, they lay, 
Enjoyment waited on Desire, 

Each Member did their Wills obey. 
Nor could a Wish set Pleasure higher. 

But we, poor Slaves to Hope and Fear, 
Are never of our Joys secure : 

They lessen still as they draw near, 
And none but dull Delights endure. 

Then, Chloris, while I Duty pay, 
The nobler Tribute of my Heart, 

Be not you so severe to say 
You love me for a frailer Part. 

Give me Leave to rail at you, 

I ask nothing but my due 

To call you false and then to say 

You shall not keep my Heart a Day. 

But, alas! against my Will, 

I must be your Captive still. 

Ah, be kinder then, for I 

Cannot change and would not die. 

Kindness has resistless Charms, 

All besides but weakly move, 
Fiercest Anger it disarms, 

And clips the Wings of flying Love. 
Beauty does the Heart invade, 
Kindness only can persuade ; 
It gilds the Lover's servile chain, 
And makes the Slaves grow pleased again. 

Upon Leaving his Mistress 

'Tis not that I am weary grown 
Of being yours and yours alone, 
But with what Face can I incline 
To damn you to be only mine r 


John Wilmot 

You, whom some kinder Pow'r did fashion 

By Merit and by Inclination 

The Joy at least of a whole Nation. 

Let meaner Spirits of your Sex 

With humbler Aims their Thoughts perplex, 

And boast if, by their Arts, they can 

Contrive to make one happy Man : 

While, moved by an impartial Sense, 

Favours like Nature you dispense 

With universal influence. 

See, the kind Seed receiving Earth 
To every Grain affords a Birth, 
On her no Show'rs unwelcome fall, 
Her willing Womb retains 'em all. 
And shall my Celia be confhVd ? 
No, live up to thy mighty Mind, 
And be the Mistress of Mankind ! 

Absent from thee I languish still, 

Then ask me not, when I return ? 
The straying Fool 'twill plainly kill 

To wish all Day, all Night to mourn. 

Dear, from thine Arms then let me fly, 

That my fantastic Mind may prove j 

The Torments it deserves to try, I 

That tears my fixed Heart from my Love. ' 

When, wearied with a World of Woe, 

To thy safe Bosom I retire, 
Where Love, and Peace, and Honour flow, 

May I, contented, there expire. 

Lest once more wandering from that Heaven, 

I fall on some base Heart unblessed, 
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, 

And lose my everlasting Rest. i 

5 6 

John Wilmot 
To his Mistress 

Why dost thou shade thy lovely Face ? O why 
Does that eclipsing Hand of thine deny 
The Sunshine of the Sun's enlightening Eye ? 

Without thy Light what Light remains in me ? 
Thou art my Life ; my Way, my Light's in thee ; 
I live, I move, and by thy Beams I see. 

Thou art my Life — if thou but turn away 

I die a thousand Deaths. Thou art my Way — 

Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray. 

My Light thou art — without thy glorious Sight 

My Eyes are darken'd with eternal Night. 

My Love, thou art my Way, my Life, my Light. 

Thou art my Way ; I wander if thou fly. 
Thou art my Light ; if hid how blind ami! 
Thou art my Life ; if thou withdraw'st, I die. 

My Eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see : 
To whom or whither should my Darkness flee, 
But to that Light ?— and who's that Light but thee ? 

If I have lost my Path, dear Lover, say, 
Shall I still wander in a doubtful Way ? 
Love, shall a Lamb of Israel's Sheepfold stray ? 

My Path is lost, my wandering Steps do stray ; 

I cannot go, nor can I safely stay ; 

Whom should I seek but thee, my Path, my Way ? 

And yet thou turn'st away thy Face and fly'st me ! 
And yet I sue for Grace and thou deny'st me ! 
Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me ? 


John Wilmot 

Thou art the Pilgrim's Path, the blind Man's Eye, 
The dead Man's Life. On thee my Hopes rely : 
If I but them remove, I surely die. 

Dissolve thy Sunbeams, close thy Wings and stay ! 
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray ! 
— Oh thou that art my Life, my Light, my Way ! 

Then work thy Will ! If Passion bid thee flee, 
My Reason shall obey, my Wings shall be 
Stretch'd out no further than from me to thee ! 

My dear Mistress has a Heart, 

Soft as those kind Looks she gave me, 
When with Love's resistless Art 

And her Eyes she did enslave me. 
But her Constancy's so weak, 

She's so wild and apt to wander, 
That my jealous Heart would break, 

Should we live one day asunder. 

Melting Joys about her move, 

Killing Pleasures, wounding Blisses, 
She can dress her Eyes in Love, 

And her Lips can warm with Kisses. 
Angels listen when she speaks, 

She's my Delight, all Mankind's Wonder, 
But my jealous Heart would break, 

Should we live one day asunder. 

While on those lovely Looks I gaze, 

To see a Wretch pursuing, 
In Raptures of a blest Amaze 

His pleasing happy Ruin ; 
'Tis not for Pity that I move, 

His Fate is too aspiring, 
Whose Heart, broke with a Load of Love, 

Dies wishing and admiring, 


John Wilmot 

But if this Murder you'd forego, 

Your Slave from Death removing, 
Let me your Art of Charming know, 

Or learn you mine of Loving ; 
But, whether Death or Life betide, 

In Love His equal Measure ; 
The Victor lives with empty Pride, 

The Vanquish'd die with Pleasure. 

A Dialogue 


Prithee, now, fond Fool, give o'er ; 
Since my Heart is gone before, 
To what Purpose should I stay ? 
Love commands another Way. 


Perjur'd Swain, I knew the Time 
When Dissembling was your Crime ; 
In Pity now employ that Art, 
Which first betray'd, to ease my Heart. 


Women can with Pleasure feign, 
Men dissemble still with Pain. 
What Advantage will it prove, 
If I lie, who cannot love ? 


Tell me then the Reason, why 
Love from Hearts in Love does fly ? 
Why the Bird will build a Nest, 
Where she ne'er intends to rest ? 


John Wilmot 


Love, like other little Boys, 
Cries for Hearts, as they for Toys, 
Which, when gain'd, in childish Play, 
Wantonly are thrown away. 


Still on Wing or on his Knees, 
Love does nothing by degrees, 
Basely flying when most prized, 
Meanly fawning when despised, 
Flattering or insulting ever, ' 

Generous and grateful never : 
All his Joys are fleeting Dreams, 
All his Woes severe Extremes. 


Nymph, unjustly you inveigh ; 
Love, like us, must Fate obey. 
Since 'tis Nature's Law to change, 
Constancy alone is strange. 
See the Heavens in Lightnings break, 
Next in storms of Thunder speak, 
Till a kind Rain from above 
Makes a Calm, — so 'tis in Love. 
Flames begin our first Address, 
Like meeting Thunder we embrace, 
Then, you know, the Showers that fall 
Quench the Fire and quiet all. 


How should I these Showers forget ? 
'Twas so pleasant to be wet ! 
They kilTd Love, I know it well, 
I died all the while they fell. 
Say, at least, what Nymph it is 
Robs my Breast of so much Bliss ? 
If she's fair, I shall be eased, 
Through my Ruin you'll be pleased^ 

John Wilmot 


Daphne never was so fair, 
Strephon, scarcely, so sincere, 
Gentle, innocent and free, 
Ever pleased with only me : 
Many Charms my Heart enthral, 
But there's one, above them all, 
With Aversion she does fly — 
Tedious, trading Constancy. 

Cruel Shepherd ! I submit, 
Do what you and Love think fit : 
Change is Fate and not Design, — 
Say you would have still been mine. 


Nymph, I cannot : 'tis too true, 
Change has greater Charms than you. 
Be by my Example wise, 
Faith to Pleasure sacrifice. 


Silly Swain, HI have you know 
'Twas my Practice long ago, 
Whilst you vainly thought me true, 
I was false in Scorn of you. 
By my Tears, my Heart's Disguise, 
I thy Love and thee despise ; 
Womankind more Joy discovers 
Making Fools than making Lovers. 

Upon Drinking in a Bowl 

Vulcan, contrive me such a Cup 

As Nestor used of Old, 
Show all thy Skill to trim it up, 

Damask it round with Gold. 

John Wilmot 

Make it so large, that, fill'd with Sack 

Up to the swelling Brim, 
Vast Toasts on the delicious Lake, 

Like Ships at Sea, may swim. 

Engrave not Battle on his Cheek, 
With War I've nought to do, 

I'm none of those that took Maestrick, 
Nor Yarmouth Leaguer knew. 

Let it no Name of Planets tell, 
Fix'd Stars and Constellations ; 

For I am no Sir Sidrophel, 
Nor none of his Relations. 

But carve thereon a spreading Vine, 

Then add two lovely Boys ; 
Their Limbs in amorous Folds entwine, 

The Type of future Joys. 

Cupid and Bacchus my Saints are, 
May Drink and Love still reign 1 

With Wine I wash away my Care, 
And then to Love again ! 

Upon Nothing 

Nothing ! thou Elder Brother ev'n to Shade, 
That hadst a Being ere the World was made, 
And (well fixt) art alone, of Ending not afraid. 

Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, 
When primitive Nothing something straight begot, 
Then all proceeded from the great united . . . What ? 

Something, the general Attribute of all, 
Sever*d from thee, its sole Original, 
Into thy boundless Self must undistinguished fall. 

# ••• • • • 

John Wilmol 

Yet Something did thy mighty Power command, 

And from fruitful Emptinesses Hand 

Snatch'd Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Air, and Land. 

Matter the wicked'st Offspring of thy Race, 

By Form assisted, flew from thy Embrace, 

And rebel Light obscur'd thy reverend dusky Face. 

With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join ; 
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine 
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line. 

But Turn-coat Time assists the Foe in vain, 
And, brib'd by thee, assists thy short-hVd Reign, 
And to thy hungry Womb drives back thy Slaves again. 

Though Mysteries are barr'd from laic Eyes, 
And the Divine alone, with Warrant, pries 
Into thy Bosom where Truth in private lies : 

Yet this of thee the Wise may freely say, 
Thou from the Virtuous nothing tak'st away, 
And, to be Part with thee, the Wicked wisely pray. 

Great Negative ! how vainly would the Wise 

Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise, 

Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies ? 

/j, or is not, the Two great Ends of Fate, 
And, true or false, the Subject of Debate, 
That perfect or destroy the vast Designs of Fate ; 

When they have rack'd the Politician's Breast, 

Within thy Bosom most securely rest, 

And, when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best ? 

But Nothing — why does Something still permit 

That sacred Monarchs should at Council sit, 

With Persons highly thought at best for Nothing fit ? 


John Wilmot 



Whilst weighty Something modestly abstain! 
From Princes' Coffers and from Statesmen's Brains, 
And Nothing there, like stately Nothing, reigns. 

Nothing who dwell'st with Fools in grave disguise 
For whom they reverend Shapes and Forms devise. 
Lawn Sleeves, and Furs, and Gowns, when they, like 
thee, look wise. 

French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy, 
Hibernian Learning, Scotch Civility, 
Spaniards' Dispatch, Danes' Wit, are mainly seen in 

The great Man's Gratitude to his best Friend, 
Kings' Promises, Whores' vows, towards thee may 

How swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end. 

Turnbullfr Sptars % Printers \ Edinburgh, 

The Pembroke Booklets 

(First Series) 


Robert Southwell 

Selected Poems 


Henry Constable 

Pastorals and Sonnets 

William Drummond 

Songs, Sonnets, etc. 


J. R. Tutin 


Robert Southwell 


' So [/] had written that piece of his, The Burning Babe, [/] 
would nave been content to destroy many of [mine]." — Ben 
Jonson to William Drummond. 

Henry Constable 


" Constable's ambrosiac muse."— Brk Jonson. 

"Sweet Constable doth take the wondring ear 
And lays it up in willing prisonment. ' 

— The Return from Parnassus. 

William Drummond 


" The sweetest names, and which carry a perfume in the men- 
tion, are, Kit Marlowe, Drayton^ Drummond op Hawthorn- 
den, and Cowley" 

—Charles Lamb : Detached Thoughts on 
Books and Reading. 

"Drummond . . . may almost be looked upon as the harbinger 
of afresh outburst of word-music " . . . — Geo. Macdonald. 


From the Engraving by C. H. Jeens, after Gaywood. 
By permission of Messrs. Macmillan <&■» Co, Ltd. 



Preface ....... 5 


The Burning Babe ...... zi 

A Child my Choice 
Man's Civil War . 



Scorn not the Least 


Look Home 


Times go by Turns 
Love's Servile Lot . 



Content and Rich . 


A Vale of Tears 


Upon the Image of Death 


Life is but Loss 


Pastorals and Sonnets 

The Shepherd's Song of Venus and Adonis 

A Pastoral Song between Phyllis and Amaryllis . 

Damelus* Song to his Diaphenia . 

To his Flocks ..... 

Sonnets : Of his mistress : upon occasion of her walking 
in a Garden .... 
" If true love might true love's reward obtain 
" Lady ! in beauty and in favour rare " 
" Wonder it is, and pity is't, that she " 
11 Pity refusing my poor love to feed " . 
Of his mistress : upon occasion of a friend of 

his which dissuaded him from loving 
11 Sweet Hand I the sweet yet cruel bow thou 

"Needs must I leave, and yet needs must 

love" .... 

To Our Blessed Lady . 
To Saint Mary Magdalene (■ ' Such as retired 
To Saint Katharine 
To Sir Philip Sidney's Soul ("Give pardon ") 










Songs, Sonnets, Madrigals, etc 

Song : " It autumn was, and on our hemisphere" 
„ "Phoebus, arise " .... 
1 ' I know that all beneath the moon decays " 
" Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread " 
" Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest " . 
"Ah I burning thoughts, now let me take some rest " 
" With flaming horns the Bull now brings the year " 
11 To the delightful green" . * 

" In vain I haunt the cold and silver springs " . 
" Like the Idalian queen " . 
" Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends " 
" Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold " 
* ' If crost with all mishaps be my poor life " 
' ' The sun is fair when he with crimson crown " . 
' ' Sweet rose, whence is this hue " . 
" Dear wood, and you, sweet solitary place" 
" Alexis, here she stay'd ; among these pines " . 
" I fear not henceforth death " . 
" This Life, which seems so fair " . 
" My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow " 
" Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train " 
11 What doth it serve to see Sun's burning face " . 
"The beauty, and the life" . . 

" My thoughts hold mortal strife " 
"In petticoat of green" .... 
" Hark, happy lovers, hark " 
"Near to this eglantine" .... 
The Book of the World .... 
For the Baptist ..... 
For the Magdalene .... 

Faith above Reason .... 

Man's Knowledge, Ignorance in the Mysteries of God 
Contemplation of Invisible Excellencies Above, by the 

Visible Below ..... 
The World a Game .... 

Against Hypocrisy ..... 
Change should Breed Change 
The Praise of a Solitary Life 
To a Nightingale ..... 
Content and Resolute .... 

Death's Last Will 

" Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move ? ' 
Before a Poem of Irene .... 
Epitaph : " Fame, register of time " 

Glossary . . 



The three poets brought together in this booklet were 
all born within one quarter of a century, and their work 
represents much that is most characteristic of one of 
the richest periods in our poetical history. The earliest 
of them was born two or three years before the birth 
of Shakespeare, the latest of them died in the year in 
which Lovelace's " Lucasta " was first published. The 
first two— and the two of the trio least well-remembered 
— have this in common, that they were both of them 
Roman Catholics in days when their native country 
was little tolerant of such. Each was a man of true 
poetic feeling and gifts, who is perhaps only partly 
remembered because he was but a lesser light more or 
less dimmed by the brilliant galaxy in which he was 
set. This is not the place for a close examination 
of their writings, a comparison of their methods, a 
balancing of their relative positions in our literary 
hierarchy ; here we have but a handful of blossoms 
gathered from three gardens of poesy, at a time when 
it could most truly be said that all could grow the 
flower for all had got the seed. A brief note of the 
position that eachjield in his time will form perhaps 
the most appropriate preface. 


Robert Southwell (i 561 ?-i 595), who is best known, 
by those who know him at all, as the writer of that 
beautifully fanciful devout lyric, " The Burning Babe," 
was the son of Richard Southwell of Horsham St. 
Faith's in Norfolk, and it is interesting to recall that 
his maternal ancestry gave him descent from that 
Sussex family from which there also descended in Percy 
Bysshe Shelley a later poet of a very different stamp. 



Educated at the Jesuit College at Douay, Southwell was 
at an early age incited with a desire to become a Jesuit, 
and in 1 580 he was admitted to his first vows. At Rome 
he took holy orders, and at about the age of five and 
twenty undertook the dangerous enterprise of removal 
to England at a time when the penal laws against his 
co-religionists were fatally severe. For a few years he 
lay perdu y officiating for his fellow Catholics in secret, 
" helping and gaining souls," and writing to Rome 
of the posture of affairs in the country given over so 
strongly to the enemy. Despite all his disguises, his 
earnestness in mastering such topics of conversation 
as should tend to remove suspicion of his real char- 
acter and leave him free to the exercise of his faith, 
Southwell was captured in 1 592. Thanks to Elizabethan 
law the very presence of a Jesuit in this country was a 
matter of treason, and on that charge he was tried, 
condemned, and in February 1595 was hanged at 

When at Rome Southwell was known to write much, 
both poetry and prose, but it was not until shortly 
after his death that his first poems were published, and 
then of course without any name being attached to 
them. They were at once popular with many readers 
and were reprinted not only in London, but also — with 
their author's initials — at Douay. His writings were 
such as to suggest the zealot marked out for martyrdom; 
not only are they devoted to religious themes, but the 
author explicitly deprecated the giving over of poetry 
to amorous, worldly and secular matters, — he even 
went the length of taking a known poem of the latter 
character and rewriting it as a devotional one to show 
how easily and effectively the muse might be made to 
serve the cause of religion. Southwell's work had a 
distinct effect on several of the smaller writers of the 
great age, and perhaps we may even trace it in the 
more remarkable work of his successor Donne. Ben 
Jonson, writing to the third of the poets represented in 
this booklet, declared that could he have claimed " The 
Burning Babe" as his own he would have been con- 
tent to destroy much that he had written. That poem 


is indeed like a bit of Blake written a couple of 
centuries before the time of that mystic. 


Henry Constable (1562-1613) was ason of Sir Robert 
Constable of Newark. At the age of sixteen he 
matriculated at St John's College, Cambridge, and 
early in life, despite his Protestant upbringing, became 
a Roman Catholic ; as such England — as we saw in 
the case of his contemporary Southwell — was no safe 
place for him. He went to France and remained 
there many years. His religion was not apparently 
of the zealous character of his fellow poet's, for not 
only did he not devote his poetic talent entirely to 
religious themes, but he was in correspondence with 
the English Court seemingly in the capacity of spy. 
He returned to England on the accession of James 
without having secured the essential permit to do so, 
and was shortly afterwards taken and put in the 
Tower where he remained presumably for about a year. 
He died at Liege in October 161 3. 

Constable enjoyed considerable popularity as poet 
in his day. He wrote much in the sonnet form 
widely practised by writers of his time — indeed he 
shares with Sidney the honour of being first introducer 
into this country of the Italian sonnet form. The 
first book of his of which we have record is his sonnet 
sequence " Diana " (1592), whilst he further wrote— as 
if to show that his muse was not entirely given over 
to worldly matters — a series of "Spiritual Sonnets." 
The best that he wrote in this form is excellent indeed, 
as will be seen herein ; though in many of the poems 
he echoes the conceits which were among the 
commonest poetical "properties" of the period, at 
times he could strike a deeper note. In his pastoral 
poems he appears in a more individual style, while his 
pieces of this character are marked by the ease and 
grace characteristic of the best lyrical poetry of the day. 
One of these pastorals, "The Shepherd's Song of Venus 
and Adonis," has, apart from its inherent interest, a 
special value as being, according to some authorities, 



the poem which suggested to Shakespeare his greater 
poem on the same theme. That Constable, whatever 
might be his difficulties with the authorities over his 
religious differences, was popular as a poet is sufficiently 
shown by the references to him in contemporary 
literature. In " The Return from Parnassus," written 
at about the time that the poet made his unauthorised 
return from the Continent, for example, Constable 
stands second upon the list of eleven poets, "good 
men and true," whom Ingenioso asks Judicio to 
"censure." Judicio deals briefly but pointedly and 
punningly with Constable — 

"Sweet Constable doth take the wondering ear, 
And lays it up in willing prisonment." 


William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585-1649) 
was a more voluminous writer than either of those 
with whom he is here associated, and he is also a 
writer more frequently represented in the anthologies. 
He was the eldest son of John Drummond, 
laird of Hawthornden, a few miles from Edinburgh. 
The poet was educated at Edinburgh High School 
and University, and in 1606 when en route for the 
Continent to study law he paid his first visit to 
London. After passing two or three years studying 
in France he in 1609 returned to Scotland, paying his 
second visit to London in the following year. On his 
return home after that visit he became laird of 
Hawthornden by his father's death, and thenceforward 
rarely left the place with which his name is now ever 
wedded. His first poem, an elegy on the death of 
Prince Henry, was published in 1613. In the following 
year he married, but his wife did not long survive, and 
m 16 1 6 he published a volume of poems inspired by 
his love for her and his grief at her early loss. 
Drummond had many friends and correspondents in 
London, and in 161 8 Ben Jonson walked thence 
to Edinburgh, and there made the Scots poet's 
acquaintance, staying with him for two or three 


weeks. A pleasant story which one would like to 
think true has it that the walk was undertaken simply 
with the object of becoming acquainted with his fellow 
poet. In 1626 we find Drummond in something of 
an unexpected light seeking to patent a number of 
mechanical inventions mostly connected with military 
science. In 1632 he married again. Marriage and 
mechanics had not however altogether supplanted the 
muse, for in 1633 he furnished the poems and speeches 
called for by Charles the First's Edinburgh Coronation. 
The execution of the king is said to have hastened 
Drummond's death ; he died at Hawthornden on April 
4th, 1649. 

Drummond's poetry, it has sometimes been objected, 
is the poetry of a learned rather than of an inspired 
writer ; but in some of his sonnets, and frequently in 
his songs and madrigals, he has a spontaneity, and a 
lyric sweetness which are likely long to delight all who 
care for poetry. 


Robert Southwell 

[In preparing the Southwell text I have been enabled to 
correct many long-standing misprints by reference to Dr 
Grosart's edition of Southwell's Poems in the Fuller Worthies 
Library : the best edition of Southwell hitherto printed. — 

The Burning Babe 

As I in hoary Winter's night 

Stood shivering m tfie snow, 
Surprised 1 was with sudden heat, 

Which made my heart to glow ; 
And lifting up a fearful eye 

To view what fire was near ; 
A pretty Babe, all burning bright, 

Did in the air appear, 
Who, scorched with excessive heat, 

Such floods of tears did shed, 
As though His floods should quench His flames 

WJiich with His tears were fed. 
" Alas," quoth He, " but newly born, 

In fiery heats I fry ; 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts 

OrfeelMyfhebut I. 
My faultless breast the furnace is, 

The fuel, wounding thorns, 
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, 

The ashes, shame and scorns. 
The fuel Justice layeth on, 

And Mercy blows the coals, 
The metal in this furnace wrought 

Are men's defiled souls, 

Robert Southwell 

For which, as now on fire I am 

To work them to their good, 
So will I melt into a bath 

To wash them in My blood."^ 
With this He vanished out of sight, 

And swiftly shrunk away ; 
And straight I called unto mind 

That it was Christmas day. 

A Child my Choice 

Let folly praise that fa ncy loves, I praise and Jove 

that Child 
Whose heart no thought, Whose tongue no word, 

Whose hand no deed defiled. 
I praise Him most, I love Him best, all praise and 

love is His ; 
While Him I love, in Him I live, and cannot live 

Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's 

most desired light, 
To love Him life, to leave Him death, to live in Him 

He mine by gift, I His by debt, thus each to other due, 
First friend He was, best friend He is, all times will 

try Him true. 
Though young, yet wise, though small, yet strong ; 

though man, yet God He is ; 
As wise He knows, as strong He can, as God He loves 

to bliss. 
His knowledge rules, His strength defends, His love 

doth cherish all ; 
His birth our joy, His life our light, His death our end 

of thrall. 
Alas ! He weeps, He sighs, He pants, yet do His 

angels sing ; 
Out of His tears, His sighs and throbs, doth bud a 

joyful spring. 


Robert Southwell 

Almighty Babe ! Whose tender arms can force all 

foes to fly, 
Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I 


Mans Civil War 

My hovering thoughts would fly to heaven, 

And quiet nestle in the sky ; 
Fain would my ship in Virtue's shore 

Without remove at anchor lie. 

A^| ; 

But mounting thoughts are hauted down 

With heavy poise of mortal load ; /yw^~ 

And blustering storms deny my ship 

In Virtue's haven secure abode. 


When inward eye to heavenly sights 

Doth draw my longing heart's desire, 
The world with jesses of delights -te^-^ K< 

Would to her perch my thoughts retire. 

Fond Fancy trains to Pleasure's lure, r-u#%~* 

Though Reason stiffly do repine ; ^ /^%, 

Though Wisdom woo me to the saint, v ^JwA^ 
Yet Sense would win me to the shrine. 

Where Reason loathes, there Fancy loves, 

And overrules the captive will ; 
Foes senses are to Virtue's lore, 

They draw the wit their wish to fill. 

Need craves consent of soul to sense, L^ 

Yet divers bents breed civil fray ; ^^ l 

Hard hap where halves must disagree, 
Or truce of halves the whole betray ! 


Robert Southwell 

O cruel fight 1 where fighting friend 
With love doth kill a favouring foe, 

Where peace with sense is war with God, 
And self-delight the seed of woe 1 

Dame Pleasure's drugs are steeped in sin, 
Their sugared taste doth breed annoy ; 

O fickle sense ! beware her gin, 
Sell not thy soul to brittle joy ! 

Scorn not the Least 

Where words are weak and foes encountering strong, 
Where mightier do assault than do defend, 

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, 
And silent sees that speech could not amend. 

Yet higher powers must think, though they repine, 

When sun is set, the little stars will shine. 

While pike doth range the silly tench doth fly, 
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish ; 

Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by, 
These fleet afloat while those do fill the dish. 

There is a time even for the worm to creep, 

And suck the dew while all her foes do sleep. 

The merlin cannot ever soar on high, 
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase ; 

The tender lark will find a time to fly, 
And fearful hare to run a quiet race : 

He that high growth on cedars did bestow, 

Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow. 

In Aman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, 
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe ; 

The lazar pined while Dives 1 feast was kept, 
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go. 

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May, 

Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away. 


Robert Southwell 
Look Home 

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, 

As beauty doth in self-beholding eye ; V^-vW 

Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 

A brief wherein all marvels summed lie, 

Of fairest forms and sweetest shapes the store, ^ 

Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more. , .. 

The mind a creature is, yet can create, 

To Nature's patterns adding higher skill ; 
Of finest works wit better could the state 

If force of wit had equal power of will : 
Device of man in working hath no end ; 
What thought can think another thought can mend 

Man's soul of endless beauties image is, 
Drawn by the work of endless skill and might ; 

This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, 
And to discern this bliss, a native light ; 

To frame God's image as His worth required 

His might, His skill, His word and will conspired. 

All that he had His image should present, 

All that it should present he could afford, 
To that he could afford his will was bent, 

His will was followed with performing word ; 
Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, — 
He should, he could, he would, he did the best 

Times go by Turns 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower ; 

The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 
The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower ; 

Times go by turns, and chances change by course, 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 


Robert Southwell 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, 
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb ; 

Her tide hath equal times to come and go, 
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ; 

No joy so great but runneth to an end, 

No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, 
No endless night, yet not eternal day ; 

The saddest birds a season find to sing, 
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay : 

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 

That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall 


A chance may win that by mischance was lost ; 

The net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd, 

Few all they need, but none have all they wish ; 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall : 
Who least, hath some ; who most, hath never alL 

* Love's Servile Lot 

LOVE mistress is of many minds 
Yet few know whom they serve ; 

They reckon least how little Love 
Their service doth deserve. 

The will she robbeth from the wit, 
The sense from reason's lore ; 

She is delightful in the rind, 
Corrupted in the core. 

She shroudeth Vice in Virtue's veil ; 

Pretending good in ill ; 
She ofPreth joy, affordeth grief, 

A Kiss, where she doth kill. 

Robert Southwell 

A honey-shower rains from her lips, 
Sweet lights shine in her face ; 

She hath the blush of virgin mind, 
The mind of viper's race. 

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ; 

To find but not enjoy ; 
In many frowns some gliding smiles 

She yields, to more annoy. 

She woos thee to come near her fire, 
Yet doth she draw it from thee ; 

Far off she makes thy heart to fry, 
And yet to freeze within thee. 

She letteth fall some luring baits 

For fools to gather up ; 
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste 

She tempereth her cup. 

Soft souls she binds in tender twist, 
Small flies in spinner's web, 

She sets afloat some luring streams, 
But makes them soon to ebb. 

Her wafry eyes have burning force ; 

Her floods and flames conspire ; 
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, 

And sighs do blow her fire. 

May never was the month of love, 
For May is full of flowers, 

But rather April, wet by kind, 
For love is full of showers. 

Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives, 
Like surgeon, salve she lends ; 

But salve and sore have equal force, 
For death is both their ends. 
P. 6 B 17 

Robert Southwell 

With soothing words enthralled souls 
She chains in servile bands ; 

Her eye in silence hath a speech 
Which eye best understands. 

Her little sweet hath many sours ; 

Short hap immortal harms ; 
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts, 

Her songs bewitching charms. 

Like Winter rose and Summer ice 

Her joys are still untimely ; 
Before her Hope, behind Remorse : 

Fair first, in fine unseemly. 

Moods, passions, fancies, jealous fits, 

Attend upon her train ; 
She yieldeth rest without repose, 

And heaven in hellish pain. 

Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit, 
And slippery Hope her stairs ; 

Unbashful boldness bids her guests, 
And every vice repairs. 

Her diet is of such delights 

As please till they be past ; 
But then the poison kills the heart 

That did entice the taste. 

Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath, 

Remorse rings her awake ; 
Death calls her up, Shame drives her out, 

Despairs her upshot make. 

Plow not the seas, sow not the sands, 
\\ Leave off your idle pain ; 
V Seek other mistress for your minds, 
Love's service is in vain. 

Robert Southwell 

Content and Rich 

I dwell in Grace's court, 
Enriched with Virtue's rights ; 

Faith guides my wit ; Love leads my will, 
Hope all my mind delights. 

In lowly vales I mount 

To Pleasure's highest pitch ; 
My silly shroud true honours brings, 

My poor estate is rich. 

My conscience is my crown, 

Contented thoughts my rest ; 
My heart is happy in itself, 

My bliss is in my breast. 

Enough I reckon wealth ; 

A mean the surest lot, 
That lies too high for base contempt, 

Too low for envy's shot. 

My wishes are but few, 

All easy to fulfil, 
I make the limits of my poure 

The bounds unto my will. 

I have no hopes but one, 

Which is of heavenly reign : 
Effects attained, or not desired, 

All lower hopes refrain. 

I feel no care of coin, 

Well-doing is my wealth : 
My mind to me an empire is, 

While grace affordeth health. 


Robert Southwell 

I clip high-climbing thoughts, 
The wings of swelling pride : 

Their fall is worst, that from the height 
Of greatest honours slide. 

Sith sails of largest size 
The storm doth soonest tear : 

I bear so low and small a sail 
As freeth me from fear. 

I wrestle not with rage 

While Fury's flame doth burn ; 
It is in vain to stop the stream 

Until the tide do turn. 

But when the flame is out, 
And ebbing wrath doth end, 

I turn a late enraged foe 
Into a quiet friend ; 

And, taught with often proof, 

A tempered calm I find 
To be most solace to itself, 

Best cure for angry mind. 

Spare diet is my fare, 

My clothes more fit than fine : 
I know I feed and clothe a foe 

That pampered would repine. 

I envy not their hap 

Whom favour doth advance : 
I take no pleasure in their pain 

That have less happy chance. 

To rise by others' fall 

I deem a losing gain ; 
All states with others' ruins built, 

To ruin run amain. 

Robert Southwell 

No change of Fortune's calms 
Can cast my comforts down ; 

When Fortune smiles, I smile to think 
How quickly she will frown ; 

And when in froward mood 

She proves an angry foe, 
Small gain I found to let her come, 

Less loss to let her go. 

A Vale of Tears 

A vale there is, enwrapped with dismal shades, 
Which, thick with mournful pines, shrouds from the 
sun ; 

Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades, 
And snowy flood with broken streams doth run : 

Where eye-roam is from rocks to cloudy sky, 
From thence to dales with stony ruins strowed, 

Then to the crushed water's frothy fry, 
Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thawed. 

Where ears of other sound can have no choice, 
But various blustering of the stubborn wind 

In trees, in caves, in straits with divers noise, 
Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by kind : 

Where waters wrestle with encountering stones 
That break their streams and turn them into foam ; 

The hollow clouds, full fraught with thundering groans, 
With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant 

And in the horror of this fearful quire 
Consists the music of this doleful place ; 

All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire, 
Where none but heavy notes have any grace. 


Robert Southwell 

Resort there is of none but pilgrim-wights, 
That pass with trembling foot and panting heart ; 

With terror cast in cold and shuddering frights, 
They judge the place to terror framed by art 

Yet Nature's work it is, by art untouched ; 

So strait indeed, so vast unto the eye, ^ 

With such disordered order strangely couched, 

And so, with pleasing horror, low and high, — 

That who it views must needs remain aghast, 4 

Much at the work, more at the Maker's might ; 

And muse how Nature such a plot could cast, 
Where nothing seemed wrong, yet nothing right 

A place for mated minds, an only bower 
Where every thing doth soothe a pensive mood ; 

Earth lies forlorn, the cloudy sky doth lour, 
The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud. 

The struggling flood between the marble groans, 

Then roaring beats upon the craggy sides ; 
A little off, amid the pebble stones, 

With bubbling streams and purling noise it glides. 

The pines thick set, high grown, and ever green, 
Still clothe the place with shade and mourning veil ; 

Here gaping cliff, there moss-grown plain is seen ; j 

Here hope doth spring, and there again doth quail. ^ 

Huge massy stones that hang by tickle stay, 

Still threaten fall, and seem to hang in fear ; 
Some withered trees, ashamed of their decay, 

Beset with green, are forced gray coats to wear. 

Here crystal springs crept out of secret vein 
Straight find some envious hole that hides their 
grace ; 

Here sered tufts lament the want of rain, 
There thunder-wrack gives terror to the place. 



Robert Southwell 

All pangs and heavy passions here may find 
A thousand motives suited to their griefs, 

To feed the sorrows of their troubled mind, 
And chase away dame Pleasure's vain reliefs. 

To plaining thoughts this vale a rest may be, 
To which from worldly joys they may retire, 

Where Sorrow springs from water, stone, and tree ; 
Where every thing with mourners doth conspire. 

Set here, my soul, main streams of tears afloat, 
Here all thy sinful foils alone recount, 

Of solemn tunes make thou the dolefull'st note, 
That to thy ditty's dolor may amount. 

When Echo doth repeat thy plaintful cries 
Think that the very stones thy sins bewray, 

And now accuse thee with their sad replies, 
As heaven and earth shall in the later day. 

Let former faults be fuel of the fire, 
For grief, in limbeck of thy heart, to 'still 

Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire, 
And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will 

Let tears to tunes, and pains to plaints be press'd, 
And let this be the burden of thy song : 

Come, deep Remorse, possess my sinful breast ; 
Delights, adieu ! I harboured you too long. 

Upon the Image of Death 

Before my face the picture hangs \ l*.^*- 
That daily should put me in mind ' ^ 

Of those cold names and bitter pangs \w -» **" 
That shortly I am like to find : 

But yet, alas ! full little I 

Do think thereon, that I must die. 

Robert Southwell 

I often look upon a face 
Most ugly, grisly, bare and thin ; 

I often view the hollow place 
Where eyes and nose had sometimes been : 

I see the bones across that lie, 

Yet little think that I must die. 

I read the label underneath, 
That telleth me whereto I must ; 

I see the sentence eke that saith : 
" Remember, man, that thou art dust" 

But yet, alas 1 but seldom I 

Do think indeed that I must die. 

Continually at my bed's head 

A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell 
That I ere morning may be dead, 

Though now I feel myself full well : 
But yet, alas ! for all this, I 
Have little mind that I must die 

The gown which I do use to wear, 
The knife wherewith I cut my meat, 

And eke that old and ancient chair 
Which is my only usual seat : 

All these do tell me I must die, 

And yet my life amend not I. 

My ancestors are turned to clay, 
And many of my mates are gone ; 

My youngers daily drop away, 
And can I think to 'scape alone? 

No, no, I know that I must die, 

And yet my life amend not I. 

Not Solomon, for all his wit, 

Nor Samson, though he were so strong, 
No king nor person ever yet 

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along : 
Wherefore I know that I must die, 
And yet my life amend not I. 


Robert Southwell 

Though all the East did quake to hear 
Of Alexander's dreadful name, 

And all the West did likewise fear 
To hear of Julius Caesar's fame, 

Yet both by Death in dust now lie ; 

Who then can 'scape, but he must die ? 

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart ; 

If rich and poor his beck obey ; 
If strong, if wise, if all do smart, 

Then I to 'scape shall have no way. 
Oh ! grant me grace, O God ! that I 
My life may mend, sith I must die. 

Life is but Loss 

By force I live, in will I wish to die ; 

In plaint I pass the length of ling'ring days ; 
Free would my soul from mortal body fly 

And tread the track of death's desired ways : 
Life is but loss where death is deemed gain ? 
And loathed pleasures breed displeasing pain. 

Who would not die to kill all murd'ring griefs ? 

Or who would live in never-dying fears ? 
Who would not wish his treasure safe from thieves, 

And quit his heart from pangs, his eyes from tears ? 
Death parteth but two ever-fighting foes, 
Whose civil strife doth work our endless woes. 

Life is a wand'ring course to doubtful rest, 

As oft a cursed rise to damning leap, 
As happy race to win a heavenly crest ; 

None being sure what final fruits to reap : 
And who can like in such a life to dwell. 
Whose ways are strait to heaven, but wide to hell ? 


Robert Southwell 

Come, cruel death, why ling'rest thou so long ? 

What doth withhold thy dint from fatal stroke ? 
Now press'd I am, alas ! thou dost me wrong 

To let me live, more anger to provoke : 
Thy right is had when thou hast stopp'd my breath, 
Why shouldst thou stay to work my double death ? 

If Saul's attempt in falling on his blade 
As lawful were as ethe to put in ure ; * 

If Samson's leave a common law were made ; 
Of AbePs lot if all that would were sure ; 

Then, cruel Death, thou shouldst the tyrant play 

With none but such as wished for delay. 

Where life is loved thou ready art to kill, 
And to abridge with sudden pangs their joy ; 

Where life is loath'd thou wilt not work their will, 
But dost adjourn their death to their annoy. 

To some thou art a fierce unbidden guest ; 

But those that crave thy help thou helpest least 

Avaunt, O viper ! I thy spite defy ; 

There is a God that overrules thy force, 
Who can thy weapons to His will apply, 

And shorten or prolong our brittle course : 
I on His mercy, not thy might rely ; 
To Him I live, for Him I hope to die. 

1 As lawful as it were easy to put in practice. 


Henry Constable 

The Shepherd's Song of 
Venus and Adonis 

Venus fair did ride, Silver doves they drew her, 
By the pleasant lawnds Ere the sun did rise ; 
Vesta's beauty rich Opened wide to view her, 
Philomel records Pleasing harmonies. 
Every bird of spring Cheerfully did sing, 

Paphos' goddess they salute ; 
Now Love's queen so fair, Had of mirth no care, 

For her son had made her mute. 
In her breast so tender He a shaft did enter, 

When her eyes beheld a boy ; 
Adonis was he named, By his mother shamed, 

Yet he now is Venus' joy. 

Him alone she met, Ready bound for hunting, 
Him she kindly greets, And his journey stays ; 
Him she seeks to kiss No devices wanting, 
Him her eyes still woo, Him her tongue still prays. 
He with blushing red Hangeth down the head 

Not a kiss can he afford ; 
His face is turn'd away. Silence said her nay, 

Still she woo'd him for a word. 
"Speak," she said, "thou fairest, Beauty thou 
impairest ; 

See me, I am pale and wan. 
Lovers all adore me, I for love implore thee" ; 

Crystal tears with that down ran. 

Henry Constable 

Him herewith she forced To come sit down by her, 
She his neck embraced, Gazing in his face ; 
He, like one transform'd, SthVd no look to eye her, 
Every herb did woo him Growing in that place. 
Each bird with a ditty, Prayed him for pity 

In behalf of Beauty's queen ; 
Waters' gentle murmur Craved him to love her, 

Yet no liking could be seen. 
"Boy," she said, "look on me; Still I gaze upon 

Speak, I pray thee, my delight I " 
Coldly he replied, And in brief denied 

To bestow on her a sight. 

" I am now too young To be won by beauty, 
Tender are my years, I am yet a bud." 
" Fair thou art," she said, "Then it is thy duty, 
Wert thou but a blossom, To effect my good. 
Every beauteous flower Boasteth in my power, 

Birds and beasts my laws effect ; 
Myrrha, thy fair mother, Most of any other 

Did my lovely nests respect. 
Be with me delighted, Thou shalt be requited, 

Every nymph on thee shall tend ; 
All the gods shall love thee, Man shall not reprove 

Love himself shall be thy friend" 

" Wend thee from me, Venus ; I am not disposed ; 
Thou wring'st me too hard ; Prithee, let me go. 
Fie, what a pain it is Thus to be enclosed t 
If love begin with labour, It will end in woe." 
" Kiss me, I will leave." " Here a kiss receive." 

"A short kiss I do it find. 
Wilt thou leave me so ? Yet thou shalt not go. 

Breathe once more thy balmy wind ; 
It smelleth of the myrrh-tree, That to the world did 
bring thee ; 

Never was perfume so sweet." 
When she had thus spoken, She gave him a token, 

And their naked bosoms meet 


Henry Constable 

"Now," he said, u let's go. Hark, the hounds are 

Grisly boar is up ; Huntsmen follow fast." 
At the name of boar, Venus seemed dying, 
Deadly coloured pale, Roses overcast. 
w Speak," said she, " no more Of following the boar, 

Thou, unfit for such a chase. 
Course the fearful hare, Venison do not spare. 

If thou wilt yield Venus grace, 
Shun the boar, I pray thee, Else I still will stay 

Herein he vowed to please her mind. 
Then her arms enlarged, Loth she him discharged ; 

Forth he went as swift as wind. 

Thetis Phoebus' steeds In the west retained, 
Hunting-sport was past, Love her love did seek. 
Sight of him too soon, Gentle queen, she gained ; 
On the ground he lay, Blood had left his cheek. 
For an orped swine Smit him in the groin ; 

Deadly wound his death did bring. 
Which when Venus found, She fell in a swound, 

And, awaked, her hands did wring. 
Nymphs and satyrs skipping, Came together trip- 

ping W V 

Echo every cry expressed ; 

Venus by her power Turn'd him to a flower, 

Which she weareth in her crest 


Henry Constable 

A Pastoral Song between 
Phyllis and Amaryllis, 
Two Nymphs, each 
answering other line for 

Fie on the sleights that men devise, 

Heigho, silly sleights ! 
When simple maids they would entice, 

Maids are young men's chief delights. 
Nay, women they witch with their eyes, 

Eyes like beams of burning sun, 
And men once caught, they soon despise, 

So are shepherds oft undone. 

If any young man win a maid, 

Happy man is he ; 
By trusting him she is betra/d, 

Fie upon such treachery ! 
If maids win young men with their guiles, 

Heigho, guileful grief ! 
They deal like weeping crocodiles, 

That murder men without relief. 

I know a simple country hind, 

Heigho, silly swain ! 
To whom fair Daphne proved unkind : 

Was he not kind to her again ? 
He vowed by Pan with many an oath, 

Heigho, shepherd's god is he ! 
Yet since hath changed and broke his troth, 

Troth-plight broke will plagued be. 

Henry Constable 

She had deceived many a swain, 

Fie on false deceit ! 
And plighted troth to them in vain, 

There can be no grief more great. 
Her measure was with measure paid, 

Heigho, heigho, equal meed ! 
She was beguiled that had betray'd, 

So shall deceivers speed. 

If every maid were like to me, 

Heigho, hard of heart i 
Both love and lovers scorn'd should be, 

Scorners shall be sure of smart. 
If every maid were of my mind, 

Heigho, heigho, lovely sweet ! 
They to their lovers should prove kind, 

Kindness is for maidens meet. 

Methinks, love is an idle toy, 

Heigho, busy pain ! 
Both wit and sense it doth annoy, 

Both sense and wit thereby we gain. 
Tush, Phyllis, cease ! be not so coy, 

Heigho, heigho, coy disdain ! 
I know you love a shepherd's boy, 

Fie that maidens so should feign. 

Well, Amaryllis, now I yield, 

Shepherds, pipe aloud ! 
Love conquers both in town and field, 

Like a tyrant fierce and proud. 
The evening star is up, ye see, 

Vesper shines, we must away ; 
Would every lover might agree ! 

So we end our roundelay. 


Henry Constable 

Damelus' Song to his 

DlAPHENlA, like the daffadowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 

Heigho, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as my lambs 
Are beloved of their dams : 

How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me ! 

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, 
That in thy sweets au sweets encloses, 

Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the sun's life-giving power ; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 
When all thy praises are expressed, 

Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 
As the birds do love the Spring, 
Or the bees their careful king : 

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me ! 

To his Flocks 

Feed on, my flocks, securely, 
Your shepherd watcheth surely : 
Run about, my little lambs, 
Skip and wanton with your dams, 

Your loving herd with care will tend ye. 
Sport on, fair flocks, at pleasure, 
Nip Vesta's flooring treasure ; 
I myself will duly hark, 
When my watchful dog doth bark ; 

From wolf and fox I will defend ye. 

Henry Constable 

Of his mistress: upon occa- 
sion of her walking in a 

My lady's presence makes the roses red, 
Because to see her lips they blush for shame : 
The lilies' leaves, for envy, pale became, 
And her white hands in them this envy bred. 
The marigold abroad her leaves doth spread, 
Because the sun's and her power is the same ; 
The violet of purple colour came, 
Dyed with the blood she made my heart to shed. 
In brief— all flowers from her their virtue take : i 

From her sweet breath their sweet smells do pro- 
The living heat which her eye-beams do make 
Warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed. 
The rain wherewith she watereth these flowers 
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers. 

If true love might true love's reward obtain, 
Dumb wonder only could speak of my joy ; 
But too much worth hath made thee too much coy, 
And told me long ago — I loved in vain. 
Not then vain hope of undeserved gain 
Hath made me paint in verses mine annoy, 
But for thy pleasure ; that thou might'st enjoy 
Thy beauties' sight, in glasses of my pain. 
See then thy self, though me thou wilt not hear, 
By looking on my verse : for pain in verse 
Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear. 
So, if thou would'st my verses' meaning see, 
Expound them thus : When I my love rehearse, 
None loves like him ;— that is, none fair like me. 
p. 6 c 33 

Henry Constable 

LADY ! in beauty and in favour rare, 

Of favour, not of due, I favour crave : 

Nature to thee beauty and favour gave, 

Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare. 

And when on me bestowed your favours are, 

Less favour in your face you shall not have : 

If favour then a wounded soul may save, 

Of murder's guilt, dear lady, then beware, 

My loss of life a million-fold were less 

Than the least loss should unto you befall ; 

Yet grant this gift : which gift when I possess, 

Both I have life, and you no loss at all ; 

For by your favour only I do live ; 

And favour you may well both keep and give. 

Wonder it is, and pity is't, that she 

In whom all Beauty's treasure we may find, 

That may enrich the body and the mind, 

Towards the poor should use no charity. 

My love is gone a-begging unto thee ; 

And if that Beauty had not been more kind 

Than Pity, long ere this he had been pined ; — 

But Beauty is content his food to be. 

Oh, pity have, when such poor orphans beg ! 

Love, nak£d boy, hath nothing on his back ; 

And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg, 

Yet maimed he is, sith he his sight doth lack. 

And yet, though blind, he Beauty can behold, 

And yet, though naked, he feels more heat than cold. 

Pity refusing my poor love to feed, 

A beggar starved for want of help he lies, 

And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries — 

That thence some alms of sweet grants may proceed. 

But as he waiteth for some almes-deed 

A cherry-tree before the door he spies— 

" Oh dear ! n quoth he, " two cherries may suffice, 

Two only, life may save in this my need." 


Henry Constable 

But beggars can they naught but cherries eat ? 
Pardon my Love, he is a goddess' son, 
And never feedeth but on dainty meat, 
Else need he not to pine as he hath done : 
For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree 
Can give food to my Love, and life to me. 

Of his Mistress : upon occa- 
sion of a friend of his 
which dissuaded him 
from loving 

A friend of mine moaning my helpless love, 

Hoping, by killing hope, my love to slay ; 

" Let not," quoth he, " thy hope thy heart betray, 

Impossible it is her heart to move." 

But, sith resolved love cannot remove 

As long as thy divine perfections stay, 

Thy godhead then he sought to take away : — 

Dear ! seek revenge, and him a liar prove. 

Gods only do impossibilities : 

" Impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain I n 

Show then the power of thy divinities, 

By granting me thy favor to obtain : 

So shall thy foe give to himself the lie, 

A goddess thou shalt prove, and happy I. 

Sweet Hand I the sweet yet cruel bow thou art 
From whence at me five ivory arrows fly ; 
So with five wounds at once I wounded lie, 
Bearing in breast the print of every dart. 
Saint Francis had the like — yet felt no smart, 
Where I in living torments never die ; 
His wounds were in his hands and feet, where I 
All these same helpless wounds feel in my heart 


Henry Constable 

Now as Saint Francis (if a saint) am I : 
The bow that shot these shafts a relic is, 
I mean the Hand — which is the reason why 
So many for devotion thee would kiss : 
And I thy glove kiss as a thing divine — 
Thy arrows' quiver, and thy relics' shrine. 

Needs must I leave, and yet needs must I love ; 
In vain my wit doth paint in verse my woe : 
Disdain in thee despair in me doth show 
How by my wit I do my folly prove. 
All this my heart from love can never move ; 
Love is not in my heart, no, lady, no : 
My heart is love itself ; till I forego 
My heart, I never can my love remove. 
How shall I then leave love ? I do intend 
Not to crave grace, but yet tvprish it still ; 
Not to praise thee, but beauty to commend, 
And so by beauty's praise, praise thee I will. 
For as my heart is love, love not in me, 
So beauty thou — beauty is not in thee. 

To Our Blessed Lady 

Sweet queen ! although thy beauty raise up me 
From sight of baser beauties here below ; 
Yet let me not rest there, but higher go 
To Him, who took His shape from God and thee. 
And if thy form in Him more fair I see, 
What pleasure from his deity shall flow 
By whose fair beams his beauty shineth so, 
When I shall it behold eternally ! 
Then shall my love of pleasure have its fill 
When Beauty's self, in whom all pleasure is, 
Shall my enamour'd soul embrace and kiss, 
And shall new loves and new delights distil 
Which from my soul shall gush into my heart, 
And through my body flow to every part 

Henry Constable 

To Saint Mary Magdalene 

Such as retired from sight of men, like thee, 
By penance seek the joys of heaven to win, 
In deserts make their paradise begin, 
And even amongst wild beasts do angels see ; 
In such a place my soul doth seem to be, 
When in my body she laments her sin, 
And none but brutal passions finds therein, 
Except they be sent down from heaven to me. 
Yet if these praises God to me impart, 
Which He inspired thy blessed heart withal, 
I may find heaven in my retired heart ! 
And if thou change the object of my love, 
The wing'd Affection, which men Cupid call, 
May get his sight, and like an angel prove. 

To Saint Katharine 

Because thou wast the daughter of a King, 

Whose beauty did all Nature's works exceed, 

And wisdom wonder to the world did breed, 

A muse might rouse itself on Cupid's wing ; - 

But, sith [the graces] which from nature spring 

Were graced by those which from grace did proceed, 

And glory [have] deserved, my Muse doth need 

An angel's feathers when thy praise I sing. 

For all in thee became angelical : 

An angel's face had angels' purity, 

And thou an angel's tongue didst speak withal ; 

Lo 1 why thy soul, set free by martyrdom, 

Was crowned by God in angels' company, 

And angels' hands thy body did entomb. 


Henry Constable 
To Sir Philip Sidney's Soul 

Give pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries, 
If they, importune, interrupt thy song, 
Which now with joyful notes thou sing^st among 
The angel-quiristers of th } heavenly skies. 
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes 
That since I saw thee now it is so long, 
And yet the tears that unto thee belong 
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice. 
I did not know that thou wert dead before ; 
I did not feel the grief I did sustain ; 
The greater stroke astonisheth the more ; 
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain ; 
I stood amazed when others' tears begun, 
And now begin to weep when they have done. 


William Drummond 

It autumn was, and on our hemisphere 

Fair Erycine l began bright to appear ; 

Night westward did her gemmy world decline, 

And hide her lights, that greater light might shine ; 

The crested bird had given alarum twice 

To lazy mortals, to unlock their eyes ; 

The owl had left to plain, ancf from each thorn 

The wingM musicians did salute the morn, 

Who, while she glass' d her locks in Ganges' streams, 

Set open wide the crystal port of dreams ; 

When I, whose eyes no drowsy night could close, 

In sleep's soft arms did quietly repose, 

And, for that heavens to die me did deny, 

Death's image kissed, and as dead did lie. 

I lav as dead, but scarce charm'd were my cares, 

And slaked scarce my sighs, scarce dried my tears, 

Sleep scarce the ugly figures of the day 

Had with his* sable pencil put away, 

And left me in a still and calmy mood, 

When by my bed methought a virgin stood, 

A virgin in the blooming of her prime, 

If such rare beauty measured be by time. 

Her head a garland wore of opals bright, 

About her flow'd a gown as pure as light, 

Dear amber locks gave umbrage to her face. 

Where modesty high majesty did grace ; 

Her eyes such beams sent forth, that but with pain 

Here weaker sights their sparkling could sustain. 

1 Venus. 


William Drummond 1 

No deity feign'd which haunts the silent woods 
Is like to her, nor syren of the floods : 
Such is the golden planet of the year, 
When blushing in the east he doth appear. 
Her grace did beauty, voice yet grace did pass, 
Which thus through pearls and rubies broken was. 

How long wilt thou, said she, estranged from joy, * 

Paint shadows to thyself of false annoy ? ■ 

How long thy mind with horrid shapes affright, 
And in imaginary evils delight ; 
Esteem that loss which, well when vieVd, is gain, 
Or if a loss, yet not a loss to plain ? 
O leave thy tired soul more to molest, 
And think that woe when shortest then is best. 
If she for whom thou deaf nest thus the sky 
Be dead, what then ? was she not born to die ? 
Was she not mortal born ? If thou dost grieve 
That times should be in which she should not live, 
Ere e'er she was weep that day's wheel was roll'd, 
Weep that she liv'd not in the age of gold ; 
For that she was not then, thou may'st deplore 
As duly as that now she is no more. 
If only she had died, thou sure hadst cause 
To blame the destines, and heaven's iron laws ; 
But look how many millions her advance, 
What numbers with her enter in this dance, 
With those which are to come : shall heavens them 

And All's fair order break, thee to obey ? 1 

Even as thy birth, death, which doth thee appal, J 

A piece is of the life of this great AIL 
Strong cities die, die do high palmy reigns, 
And, weakling, thou thus to be handled plains. 

If she be dead, then she of loathsome days 
Hath past the line, whose length but loss bewrays ; 
Then she hath left this filthy stage of care, 
Where pleasure seldom, woe doth still repair : 
For all the pleasures which it doth contain, 
Not countervail the smallest minute's pain. 
And tell me, thou who dost so much admire 
This little vapour, smoke, this spark, or fire, 

William Drummond 

Which life is call'd, what doth it thee bequeath 
But some few years which birth draws out to death ? 
Which if thou paragon with lustres run, 
And them whose career is but now begun, 
In day's great vast they shall far less appear, 
Than with the sea when matched is a tear. 
But why wouldst thou here longer wish to be ? 
One year doth serve all nature's pomp to see, 
Nay, even one day and night : this moon, that 

Those lesser fires about this round which run, 
Be but the same which, under Saturn's reign, 
Did the serpen ting seasons interchain. 
How oft doth life grow less by living long ? 
And what excelleth but what dieth young ? 
For age which all abhor, yet would embrace, 
Whiles makes the mind as wrinkled as the face ; 
And when that destinies conspire with worth, 
That years not glory wrong, life soon goes forth. 
Leave then laments, and think thou didst not live, 
Laws to that first eternal cause to give, 
But to obey those laws which he hath given, 
And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven, 
Which can not err, whatever foggy mists 
Do blind men in these sublunary lists. 

But what if she for whom thou spend'st those groans, 
And wastest life's dear torch in ruthful moans, 
She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful light, 
Courfst solitary shades, and irksome night, 
Doth live ? O ! if thou canst, through tears, a space 
Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon this face, 
Look if those eyes which, fool, thou didst adore, 
Shine not more bright than they were wont before ; 
Look if those roses death could aught impair, 
Those roses to thee once which seem'd so fair ; 
And if these locks have lost aught of that gold, 
Which erst they had when thou them didst behold. 
I live, and happy live, but thou art dead, 
And still shalt be, till thou be like me made. 
Alas ! whilst we are wrapt in gowns of earth, 
And blind, here suck the air of woe beneath, 


William Drummond 

Each thing in sense's balances we weigh, 
And but with toil and pain the truth descry. 

Above this vast and admirable frame. 
This temple visible, which World we name, 
Within those walls so many lamps do burn, 
So many arches opposite do turn, 
Where elemental brethren nurse their strife 
And by intestine wars maintain their life, 
There is a world, a world of perfect bliss, 
Pure,~immaterial, bright, more far from this 
Than that high circle, which the rest enspheres, 
Is from this dull ignoble vale of tears ; 
A world, where all is found, that here is found, 
But further discrepant than heaven and ground. 
It hath an earth, as hath this world of yours, 
With creatures peopled, stored with trees and flowers ; 
It hath a sea, like sapphire girdle cast, 
Which decketh of harmonious shores the vast ; 
It hath pure fire, it hath delicious air, 
Moon, sun, and stars, heavens wonderfully fair : 
But there flow'rs do not fade, trees grow not old, 
The creatures do not die through heat nor cold ; 
Sea there not tossed is, nor air made black ; 
Fire doth not nurse itself on other's wrack ; 
There heavens be not constraint about to range, 
For this world hath no need of any change ; 
The minutes grow not hours, hours rise not days, 
Days make no months but ever-blooming Mays. 

Here I remain, but hitherward do tend 
All who their span of days in virtue spend : 
Whatever pleasure this low place contains, 
It is a glance but of what high remains. 
Those who, perchance, think there can nothing be 
Without this wide expansion which they see, 
And that nought else mounts stars' circumference, 
For that nought else is subject to their sense, 
Feel such a case, as one whom some abysm 
Of the deep ocean kept had all his time ; 
Who born and nourish'd there, can scarcely dream 
That ought can live without that briny stream ; 
Cannot believe that there be temples, towers, 

William Drummond — - ' *- : 

Which go beyond his caves and dampish bowers, 

Or there be other people, manners, laws, 

Than them he finds within the roaring waves ; 

That sweeter flow'rs do spring than grow on rocks, 

Or beasts be which excel the scaly flocks ; 

That other elements be to be found, 

Than is the water, and this ball of ground. 

But think that man from those abysms were brought, 

And saw what curious nature here hath wrought, 

Did see the meads, the tall and shady woods, 

The? hills did see, the clear and ambling floods, 

The diverse shapes of beasts which kinds forth bring, 

The feathered troops, that fly and sweetly sing ; 

Did see the palaces, the cities fair, 

The form of human life, the fire, the air, 

The brightness of the sun that dims his sight, 

The moon, the ghastly splendours of the night : 

What uncouth rapture would his mind surprise ! 

How would he his late-dear resort despise ! 

How would he muse how foolish he had been 

To think nought be, but what he there had seen ! 

Why did we get this high and vast desire, 

Unto immortal things still to aspire ? 

Why doth our mind extend it beyond time, 

And to that highest happiness even climb, 

If we be nought but what to sense we seem, 

And dust, as most of worldlings us esteem ? 

We be not made for earth, though here we come, 

More than the embryon for the mother's womb ; 

It weeps to be made free, and we complain 

To leave this loathsome jail of care and pain. 

But thou who vulgar footsteps dost not trace, 
Learn to raise up thy mind unto this place, 
And what earth-creeping mortals most affect, 
If not at all to scorn, yet to neglect : 
O chase not shadows vain, which, when obtained, 
Were better lost, than with such travail gain'd. 
Think that on earth, which humans greatness call, 
Is but a glorious title to live thrall ; 
That sceptres, diadems, and chairs of state, 
Not in themselves, but to small minds are great ; 


William Drummond 

How those who loftiest mount do hardest light. 

And deepest falls be from the highest height ; 

How fame an echo is, how all renown, 

Like to a blasted rose, ere night falls down ; 

And though it something were, think how this round 

Is but a little point, which doth it bound. 

O leave that love which reacheth but to dust, 

And in that love eternal only trust, 

And beauty, which, when once it is possest, 

Can only fill the soul, and make it blest. 

Pale envy, jealous emulations, fears, 

Sighs, plaints, remorse, here have no place, nor tears ; 

False joys, vain hopes, here be not, hate nor wrath ; 

What ends all love, here most augments it, death. 

If such force had the dim glance of an eye, 

Which some few days thereafter was to die, 

That it could make thee leave all other things, 

And like the taper-fly there burn thy wings ; 

And if a voice, of late which could but wail, 

Such pow*r had, as through ears thy soul to steal ; 

If once thou on that only Fair couldst gaze, 

What flames of love would he within thee raise ! 

In what a mazing maze would it thee bring, 

To hear but once that quire celestial sing ! 

The fairest shapes on which thy love did seize, 

Which erst did breed delight, then would displease, 

Then discords hoarse were earth's enticing sounds, 

All music but a noise which sense confounds. 

This great and burning glass that clears all eyes, 

And musters with such glory in the skies ; 

That silver star which with its sober light 

Makes day oft envy the eye-pleasing night ; 

Those golden letters which so brightly shine 

In heaven's great volume gorgeously divine ; 

The wonders all in sea, in earth, in air, 

Be but dark pictures of that sovereign Fair ; 

Be tongues, which still thus cry unto your ear, 

(Could ye amidst world's cataracts them hear,) 

From fading things, fond wights, lift your desire, 

And in our beauty, his, us made, admire : 

If we seem fair, O think how fair is he 


William Drummond 

Of whose fair fairness shadows, steps, we be. 
No shadow can compare it with the face, 
No step with that dear foot which did it trace ; 
Your souls immortal are, then place them hence, 
And do not drown them in the must of sense : 
Do not, O do not, by false pleasures' might 
Deprive them of that true and sole delight. 
That happiness ye seek is not below ; 
Earth's sweetest joy is but disguised woe. 

Here did she pause, and with a mild aspect 
Did towards me those lamping twins direct ; 
The wonted rays I knew, and thrice essay'd 
To answer make, thrice falt'ring tongue it sta/d ; 
And while upon that face I fed my sight, 
Methought she vanish'd up in Titan's light, 
Who gilding with his rays each hill and plain, 
Seem'd to have brought the golden world again. 


Phoebus, arise ! 

And paint the sable skies 

With azure, white, and red ; 

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, 

That she may thy career with roses spread ; * 

The nightingales thy coming each-where sing ; 

Make an eternal Spring, 

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 

Spread forth thy golden hair 

In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 

And emperor-like, decore 

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 

Chase hence the ugly night, 

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 

— This is that happy morn, 

That day, long-wished day, 

Of all my life so dark 

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, 


William Drummond 

And fates not hope betray), 
Which, only white, deserves 
An everlasting diamond should it mark : 
This is the morn should bring unto this grove 
My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 
Fair King, who all preserves, 
But show thy blushing beams, 
And thou two sweeter eyes 
Shalt see, than those which by Pen&us' streams 
Did once thy heart surprise ; 
Nay, suns, which shine as clear 
As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. 
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise ; 
If that ye, winds, would hear 
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, 
Your stormy chiding stay ; 
Let Zephyr only breathe, 
And with her tresses play, 
Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death. 
/ — The winds all silent are, * 
And Phoebus in his chair, 
Ensaffroning sea and air, 
Makes vanish every star : 
Night like a drunkard reels 
Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels ; 
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, 
The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue : 
Here is the pleasant place, 
And every thing, save her, who all should grace. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In Time's great periods shall return to nought ; 
That fairest states have fatal nights and days : 
I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 
And that nought lighter is than airy praise ; 
I know frail beauty like the purple flower, 
To which one morn oft birth and death affords ; 

William t)rummond 

That love a jarring is of minds' accords, * 
Where sense and will invassal reason's power : 
Know what I list, this all can not me move, * 
But that, O me I I both must write and love. 

Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread, 
And silently her resty coach doth roll, 
Rousing with her from Tethys' azure bed 
Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole ; 
While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad, 
The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries, 
And whiles looks pale from height of all the skies, 
Whiles dyes her beauties in a bashful red ; 
While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes, • 
And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep, . 
And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep, 
The winds and waves, husht up, to rest entice ; 
(I wake, muse, weep, and who my heart hath slain 
See still before me to augment my pain. 

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, 
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest ; 
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things 
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possest, 
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
Thou spares, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
To inward light which thou art wont to show, 
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, 

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath, — 
I long to kiss the image of my death. 

Ah ! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest, 
And your tumultuous broils a while appease ; 
Is't not enough, stars, fortune, love molest 
Me all at once, but ye must too displease ? * 


William Drummond 

Let hope, though false, yet lodge within my breast, 

My high attempt, though dangerous, yet praise. 

What though I trace not right heaven's steepy ways ? 

It doth suffice, my fall shall make me blest 

I do not doat on days, nor fear not death ; 

So that my life be brave, what though not long ? 

Let me renown'd live from the vulgar throng, 

And when ye list, Heavens ! take this borrowed breath. 

Men but like visions are, time all doth claim ; 

He lives, who dies to win a lasting name. 

With flaming horns the Bull now brings the year, 
Melt do the horrid mountains' helms of snow, 
The silver floods in pearly channels flow, 
The late bare-woods green anadems do wear : 
The nightingale, forgetting winter's woe, 
Calls up the lazy morn her notes to hear ; 
Those flow'rs are spread which names of princes bear, 
Some red, some azure, white and golden grow ; 
Here lows a heifer, there bea-wailing strays 
A harmless lamb, not far a stag rebounds ; 
The shepherds sing to grazing flocks sweet lays, 
And all about the echoing air resounds. 

Hills, dales, woods, floods, and everything doth 

But she in rigour, I in love am strange. 

To the delightful green 
Of you, fair radiant eyne, 
Let each black yield beneath the starry arch. 
Eyes, burnish'd Heavens of love, 
Sinople lamps of Jove, 

Save that those hearts which with your flames ye parch 
Two burning suns you prove, 
All other eyes compared with you, dear lights, 
Be Hells, or if not Hells, yet dumpish nights. 
The Heavens, if we their glass 
The sea believe, be green, not perfect blue : 
They all make fair what every fair yet was, 
And they be fair because they look like you. 

William t>rummond 

In vain I haunt the cold and silver springs, 
To quench the fever burning in my veins ; 
In vain, love's pilgrim, mountains, dales, and plains, 
I overrun ; vain help long absence brings : 
In vain, my friends, your counsel me constrains 
To fly, and place my thoughts on other things. 
Ah I like the bird that fired hath her wings, 
The more I move, the greater are my pains. 
Desire, alas ! Desire, a Zeuxis new, 
From Indies borrowing gold, from western skies 
Most bright cinoper, sets before mine eyes 
In every place, her hair, sweet look, and hue : 
That fly, run, rest I, all doth prove but vain, 
My life lies in those looks which have me slain. 

Like the Idalian queen, 

Her hair about her eyne, 

With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, 

At first glance of the morn, 

In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs 

Which of her blood were born, 

I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. 

The Graces naked danc'd about the place, 

The winds and trees amaz'd 

With silence on her gazM ; 

The flow'rs did smile, like those upon her face, 

And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, « 

That she might read my case, 

A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand. 

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, 
Ere that the blushing Dawn dare show her light, 
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends 
(Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight ; 
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, 
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight, 
May thee importune who like case pretends, 
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite ; 
P. 6 D 49 

William Drummond 

Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, 
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, 
Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky 
Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and 
plains ? 
The bird, as if my questions did her move, 
With trembling wings sobb'd forth, I love, I love ! 

TRUST not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold, 
With gentle tides which on your temples flow, 
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow, 
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolFd ; 
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my 

When first I did their burning rays behold, 
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show 
Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 
Look to this dying lily, fading rose, 
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, 
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes : 
The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers, 
Shall once, ay me ! not spare that spring of yours. 


If crost with all mishaps be my poor life, 
If one short day I never spent in mirth, 
If my spright with itself holds lasting strife, 
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth ; 
If this vain world be but a sable stage 
Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars, 
If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age, 
If knowledge serve to hold our thoughts in wars ; 
If time can close the hundred mouths of fame, 
And make, what long since past, like that to be, 
If virtue only be an idle name, 
If I, when I was born, was born to die ; 

Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days ? 

The fairest rose in shortest time decays. 

William Drummond 

The sun is fair when he with crimson crown, 
And flaming rubies, leaves his eastern bed ; 
Fair is Thaumantias in her crystal gown, 
When clouds engemm'd hang azure, green, and red : 
To western worlds when wearied day goes down, 
And from Heaven's windows each star shows her head, 
Earth's silent daughter, night, is fair, though brown ; 
Fair is the moon, though in love's livery clad ; 
Fair Chloris is when she doth paint April, 
Fair are the meads, the woods, the floods are fair ; 
Fair looketh Ceres with her yellow hair, 
And apples' queen when rose-cheek'd she doth smile. 
That heaven, and earth, and seas are fair is true, 
Yet true that all not please so much as you. 

Sweet rose, whence is this hue 

Which doth all hues excel ? 

Whence this most fragrant smell, 

And whence this form and gracing grace in you ? 

In flow'ry Paestum's field perhaps ye grew, 

Or Hybla's hills you bred, 

Or odoriferous Enna's plains you fed, 

Or Tmolus, or where boar young Adon slew ; 

Or hath the queen of love you d/d of new 

In that dear blood, which makes you look so red? 
No, none of those, but cause more high you blest, 
My lady's breast you bare, and lips you kiss'd. 

Dear wood, and you, sweet solitary place, 
Where from the vulgar I estranged live, 
Contented more with what your shades me give, 
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace ; 
What snaky eye, grown jealous of my peace, 
Now from your silent horrors would me drive, 
When Sun, progressing in his glorious race 
Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive ? 
What sweet delight a quiet life affords, 
And what it is to be of bondage free, 


William Drummond 

Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discords, 
Sweet flow'ry place, I first did learn of thee : 
Ah ! if I were mine own, your dear resorts 
I would not change with princes' stately courts. 

Alexis, here she stay'd ; among these pines, 
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair ; 
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, 
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines ; 
She set her by these musk&d eglantines, 
The happy place the print seems yet to bear ; 
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, 
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. 
Me here she first perceiv'd, and here a morn 
Of bright carnations did overspread her face ; 
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, 
And I first got a pledge of promis'd grace : 
But, ah ! what served it to be happy so, 
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe ? 

I fear not henceforth death, 

Sith after this departure yet I breathe ; 

Let rocks, and seas, and wind, % 

Their highest treasons show ; 

Let sky and earth combined 

Strive, if they can, to end my life and woe ; 

Sith grief can not, me nothing can o'erthrow : 
Or if that aught can cause my fatal lot, 
It will be when I hear I am forgot. 

This Life, which seems so fair, 

Is like a bubble blown up in the air 

By sporting children's breath, 

Who chase it everywhere, 

And strive who can most motion it bequeath : 

And though it sometime seem of its own might, 

Like to an eye of gold, to be fixtf there, 

And firm to hover in that empty height, 



William Drummond 

That only is because it is so light 
But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; 
For even when most admired, it in a thought, 
As swelled from nothing, doth dissolve in nought. 

My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow 
With thy green mother in some shady grove, 
When immelodious winds but made thee move, 
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow. 
Sith that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, 
Which us'd in such harmonious strains to flow, 
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above, 
What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear, 
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear : 
Be therefore silent as in woods before, 
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain. 

Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly 

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with 

flow'rs : 
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, 
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. 
Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but, ah ! my pleasant 

And happy days with thee come not again ; 
The sad memorials only of my pain 
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. 
Thou art the same which still thou wast before, 
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair ; 
But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, 
Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems, her can restore. 
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, 
While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. 


William Drummond 

What doth it serve to see Sun's burning face, 
And skies enamell'd with both the Indies' gold, 
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, 
And all the glory of that starry place ? 
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, 
The mountains' pride, the meadows' flowery grace, 
The stately comeliness of forests old, 
The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace ? 
What doth it serve to hear the Sylvans' songs, 
The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, 
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs? 
For what doth serve all that this world contains, 
Sith she for whom those once to me were dear, 
No part of them can have now with me here ? 

The beauty, and the life 

Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon, 

O tears ! O grief! hung at a feeble thread, 

To which pale Atropos had set her knife ; 

The soul with many a groan 

Had left each outward part, 

And now did take his last leave of the heart ; 

Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead ; 

When the afflicted band about her bed, 
Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, 
Cried, ah ! and can death enter paradise? 

My thoughts hold mortal strife ; 

I do detest my life, 

And with lamenting cries, 

Peace to my soul to bring, 

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize ; 

But he, grim-grinning King, 

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, 

Late having deckt with beauty's rose his tomb, 

Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. 


William Drummond 

Of Phillis 

In petticoat of green, 

Her hair about her eyne, 

Phillis beneath an oak 

Sat milking her fair flock : 

Among that strained moisture, rare delight I 

Her hand seem'd milk in milk, it was so white. 

A Kiss 

Hark, happy lovers, hark, 

This first and last of joys, 

This sweet'ner of annoys, 

This nectar of the gods 

Ye call a kiss, is with itself at odds ; 

And half so sweet is not 

In equal measure got 

At light of sun, as it is in the dark : 

Hark, happy lovers, hark. 

Armelines Epitaph 

Near to this eglantine 

Enclosed lies the milk-white Armeline, 

Once Chloris , only joy, 

Now only her annoy ; 

Who envied was of the most happy swains 

That keep their flocks in mountains, dales, or plains ; 

For oft she bare the wanton in her arm, 

And oft her bed and bosom did he warm : 

Now when unkindly Fates did him destroy, 

Blest dog, he had the grace, 

With tears for him that Chloris wet her face. 


William Drummond 

The Book of the World 

Of this fair volume which we World do name, 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
Find out his power which wildest pow'rs doth tame, 
His providence extending everywhere, 
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 
In every page, no, period of the same, 
But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleas'd with coloured vellum, leaves of gold, 
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best, 
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
Or if by chance our minds do muse on ought, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 

For the Baptist 

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, 
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, 
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
Which he than man more harmless found and mild : 
His food was locusts, and what young doth spring, 
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
Made him appear, long since from earth exil'd. 
There burst he forth : "All ye, whose hopes rely 
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn ? 
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn." 
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 
Only the echoes, which he made relent, 
Rung from their marble caves, " Repent, repent ! " 


William Dnimmond 

For the Magdalene 

These eyes, dear Lord, once brandons of desire, 
Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep, 
Which their own heart, then others set on fire, 
Their trait'rous black before thee here out-weep : 
These locks, of blushing deeds the fair attire, 
Smooth-frizzled waves, sad shelves which shadow 

Soul-stinging serpents in gilt curls which creep, 
To touch thy sacred feet do now aspire. 
In seas of care behold a sinking bark, 
By winds of sharp remorse unto thee driven, 
O t let me not expos'd be ruin's mark ; 
My faults confest, Lord, say they are forgiven. 
Thus sigh'd to Jesus the Bethanian fair, 
His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair. 

Faith above Reason 

SOUL, which to hell wast thrall, 

He, he for thine offence 

Did suffer death, who could not die at all. 

O sovereign excellence, 

O life of all that lives, 

Eternal bounty which each good thing gives, 

How could death mount so high ? 

No wit this height can reach ; 

Faith only doth us teach, 

For us he died, at all who could not die. 


William Drummond 

Man's Knowledge, Ignorance 
in the Mysteries of God 

Beneath a sable veil and shadows deep 
Of unaccessible and dimming light. 
In silence 9 ebon clouds more black than night, 
The world's great King his secrets hid doth keep : 
Through those thick mists, when any mortal wight 
Aspires, with halting pace and eyes that weep, 
To pore, and in his mysteries to creep, 
With thunders he and lightnings blasts their sight 
O Sun invisible, that dost abide 
Within thy bright abysms, most fair, most dark, 
Where with thy proper rays thou dost thee hide ! 
O ever-shining, never full-seen mark 1 
To guide me in life's night thy light me show, 
The more I search of thee, the less I know. 

Contemplation of I nvisible 
Excellencies Above, by 
the Visible Below 

If with such passing beauty, choice delights, 

The architect of this great round did frame 

This palace visible (short lists of fame, 

And silly mansion but of dying wights), 

How many wonders, what amazing lights 

Must that triumphing seat of glory claim, 

That doth transcend all this great All's vast heights, 

Of whose bright sun ours here is but a beam I 

O blest abode ! O happy dwelling-place, 

Where visibly th' Invisible doth reign ! 


William Drummond 

Blest people which do see true beauty's face, 
With whose far dawnings scarce he earth doth deign ! 
All joy is but annoy, all concord strife, 
Match'd with your endless bliss and happy life. 

The World a Game 

This world a hunting is, 

The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death ; 

His speedy greyhounds are 

Lust, sickness, envy, care, 

Strife that ne'er falls amiss, 

With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe. 

Now, if by chance we fly 

Of these the eager chase, 

Old age with stealing pace 

Casts up his nets, and there we panting die. 

Against Hypocrisy 

As are those apples, pleasant to the eye, 

But full of smoke within, which use to grow 

Near that strange lake, where God pourtt from the 

Huge showers of flames, worse flames to overthrow ; 
Such are their works that with a glaring show 
Of humble holiness, in virtue's dye 
Would colour mischief, while within they glow 
With coals of sin, though none the smoke descry. 
Ill is that angel which erst fell from heaven, 
But not more ill than he, nor in worse case, 
Who hides a traif rous mind with smiling face, 
And with a dove's white feathers masks a raven. 

Each sin some colour hath it to adorn, 

Hypocrisy almighty God doth scorn. 


William Drummond 

Change should Breed 

New doth the sun appear, 

The mountains' snows decay, 

Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year. 

My soul, time posts away, 

And thou yet in that frost 

Which flower and fruit hath lost, 

As if all here immortal were, dost stay : 

For shame ! thy powers awake, 

Look to that heaven which never night makes black, 

And there, at that immortal sun's bright rays, 

Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days. 

The Praise of a Solitary 

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; 
Though solitary, who is not alone, 
But doth converse with that Eternal Love. 
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, 
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widows dove, 
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, 
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, 
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath 1 
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold ! 
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights, 
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights, 

William Drummond 

To a Nightingale 

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, 
Of winters past or coming void of care, 
Well pleased with delights which present are, 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers ; 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs, 
Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven 1 
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels 9 lays. 

Content and Resolute 

As when it happ'neth that some lovely town 
Unto a barbarous besieger falls, 
Who there by sword and flame himself instals, 
And, cruel, it in tears and blood doth drown ; 
Her beauty spoiled, her citizens made thralls, 
His spite yet so cannot her all throw down, 
But that some statue, arch, fane of renown 
Yet lurks unmaimed within her weeping walls : 
So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wrack, 
That time, the world, and death could bring combined, 
Amidst that mass of ruins they did make, 
Safe from all scarless yet remains my mind : 
From this so high transcending rapture springs, 
That I, all else defaced, not envy kings. 

William Drummond 

Death's Last Will 

More oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear, 
Grave what thou hears in diamond and gold, 
I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear, 
Who hath in dust their far-stretch'd pride uprolFd ; 
All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere, 
And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold : 
This, not believM, experience true thee told, 
By danger late when I to thee came near. 
As bugbear then my visage I did show, 
That of my horrors thou right use mighVst make, 
And a more sacred path of living take : 
Now still walk armed for my ruthless blow, 
Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past, 
And live each day as if it were thy last. 

Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move ? 

Is this the justice which on earth we find ? 

Is this that firm decree which all doth bind ? 

Are these your influences, Powers above ? 

Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind, 

Blind Fortune blindly most their friend doth prove ; 

And they who thee, poor idol, Virtue, love, 

Ply like a feather tossed by storm and wind. 

Ah 1 if a Providence doth sway this All, 

Why should best minds groan under most distress ? 

Or why should pride humility make thrall, 

And injuries the innocent oppress ? 
Heavens ! hinder, stop this fate, or grant a time 
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime. 


William Drummond 

Before a Poem of Irene 

Mourn not, fair Greece, the ruin of thy kings, 
Thy temples razed, thy forts with flames devoured, 
Thy champions slain, thy virgins pure deflowered, 
Nor all those griefs which stern Bellona brings : 
But mourn, fair Greece, mourn that that sacred band 
Which made thee once so famous by their songs, 
Forc'd by outrageous Fate, have left thy land, 
And left thee scarce a voice to plain thy wrongs ; 
Mourn that those climates which to thee appear 
Beyond both Phoebus and his sister's ways, 
To save thy deeds from death must lend thee lays, 
And such as from Musaeus thou didst hear ; 
For now Irene hath attained such fame, 
That Hero's ghost doth weep to hear her name. 


Fame, register of time, 

Write in thy scroll, that I, 

Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy.* - 

Was cropped in my prime, 

And ripe in worth, tho* green in years, did die. 



cinoper: vermilion. 

damning: destructive. 

decore: decoration. 

gin: snare. 

hap: chance. 

jesses: foot-straps used for attaching the legs 

of a bird to the hand. 
lawnds: lawns. 
mated: dejected. 
orped: stout. 
poure: ? purse. 
ramage: warbling. 
silly: simple. 
simple: green. 
sith: since. 

Turnbullfr Spears, Printers, Edinburgh. 

The Pembroke Booklets 

(First Series) 


Thomas Lodge 

Songs and Sonnets 

Robert Greene 

Lyrics from Romances, etc. 

Samuel Daniel 

Selected Verse 


J. R. Tutin 



The Memory of 

WHO DIED AUGUST 1 6, 1906 



Thomas Lodge 


** Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers"— Pi* C. Swinburne. 

" Lodge's love poems have an exquisite delicacy and grace : 
they breathe a tenderer and truer passion than we find in any of 
his contemporaries" — Minto : Characteristics of English Poets. 

Robert Greene 


" To [Greene's] sonp imperfect justice has . . . hitherto been 
done . . . they are distinguished by a certain sweetness, a fluent 
vein of fancy, and a diction at once poetical and easy to be under- 
stood/'—). Addington Symonds : Shahspere's Predecessors in 
the English Drama. 

Samuel Daniel 

(1 562-1619) 

" Daniel, gentle, bland, and good, 
The wisest monitor of womanhood. " 

Hartley Coleridge: Daniel. 


From the Original Engraving, 1623 


Prefatory Note 




Rosalind's Madrigal 

Montanus' Protestation of his Love 

Montanus' Praise of his Fair Phoebe 

Rosader's Praise of Rosalind . • 

Rosader's Second " Sonnet " 

Condon's Song .... 

Love and Phyllis .... 

To Phyllis, the Fair Shepherdess . 

"Fair art thou, Phyllis'' . 

" O, happy Love I * 

A Lament in Spring 

"Fair Phoebus/ flower upon a summer morn ' 

Imitated from the Italian of Martelli 

"For pity, pretty eyes" . 

11 Accurst be Love!" 

A Distressed Mother's Lullaby 






Menaphon's Song . 

Sephestia's Song to her Child 

Menaphon's Roundelay 

Doron's Description of Samela 


Melicertus Description of his Mistress 

"What Thing is Love?" . 

Prince Psammetichus' "Sonnet" . 

The Old Man's Reply 

"Fair is my Love 

Phyllis and Coridon 

Dorastus' Praise of Fawnia 


An Ode : ' * Down the valley 'gan he track 

The'Palmer's Ode . 

Isabel's Ode 









Francesco's Ode .... 

N'oserez-wms, mon del ami t . : 

Francesco's Sonnet, called his parting blow 

Eurymachus in laudem Mirimidae . 

Radagon in Dianam 

Doralicia's Song .... 

The Shepherd's Wife's Song 

Madrigal : " Cupid abroad was 'lated in the night 

Philomela's Ode that she sung in her Arbour 

Lamilia's Song . . ,. . 

Sonnet : " What meant the poets in invective verse 

Verses written in the Poet's Last Illness * 

Wanton Beauty ... . . . 



The Golden Age . 


Early Love . 

Song : " Had Sorrow ever fitter place " 

Love's Torment . . 

Love's Secrecy 

Ulysses and the Siren 

Sonnets to Delia — 

1. " Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty " 
" Fair is my Love, and cruel as she's fair " 

" Restore thy tresses to the golden ore 
' ' Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose " 
4 ' But love while that thou may'st be loved again " 
" Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew " . 
'' I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would 

8. " Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night " 

9. " Let others sing of Knights and Paladines" 
Spring Song ..... 
Epistle to the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland 

* S3 



Prefatory Note 

The three poets represented in the accompanying 
pages may not unfairly be regarded as having, within 
certain limitations, enough in common to warrant their 
inclusion in a single booklet, where a more or less 
obvious similarity in style and in the treatment of 
literary themes is made the uniting bond. In the 
first place, two of them— Thomas Lodge and Samuel 
Daniel— belong to that notable band of Elizabethans 
for whom Sir Philip Sidney was one of the earliest in 
England to set a fashion in verse, the impulse towards 
which he had himself caught from the sonneteers of 
Italy and France. Daniel, indeed— as Mr Sidney Lee 
has pointed out 1 — 'may be reckoned Sidney's first 
successor on the throne' which the author olAstrqphel 
and Stella, conjointly with Edmund Spenser and 
Thomas Watson, had set up. The inspiration in 
each case was, directly or indirectly, the same, and 
consequently the imitative quality of the work of all 
is clearly manifest, though the debt — whether the 
borrowed verse be sonnet or lyric — was not always, so 
far as the present writers are concerned, as freely and 
frankly acknowledged. 

It is not, however, in the Sonnet— in regard either 
to its subject-matter or its structure— that the "common 
denominator' 1 of the present booklet's verse is to be 
found, but rather in the lyric note which pervades and 
characterises it. And here it is that such of the poetic 
work of the remaining member of our trio of singers 
as is represented in the following pages touches that 
of his two gifted contemporaries. Robert Greene shares 
with his literary comrade and coadjutor, Lodge, the 
distinction which belongs to the two most famous 

1 Elizabethan Sonnets: Introduction, vii. 


Prefatory Note 

disciples of John Lyly, the Euphuist, and in this 
connection claims affinity with the author of the most 
famous " novel" of the period — the Arcadia of Sidney. 
Scattered throughout the romances which Lodge and 
Greene wrote in imitation of their master, are some of 
the daintiest lyrics which Elizabethan poetry on its 
lighter side has given us. 

Though the critics mostly agree in placing the Songs 
of Lodge above those of his unhappy associate, it is 
probable that the latter had the more original and 
creative mind, a nimbler and more facile fancy — for 
much of the verse of Lodge is flagrantly derivative. 1 
Nevertheless, that the author of Rosalind possessed 
the lyrical faculty in an exceptional degree, and used 
it with graceful and commanding skill, no reader of 
the well-known " Madrigal/' e.g., can deny ; and, despite 
their imitative character, some of his more tuneful 
numbers remain among the rarest treasures of 
Elizabethan song. 

It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to remark that 
the somewhat disproportionate space accorded here 
to the three poets represented is not to be taken as 
indicating the present editor's appraisement of either 
their comparative importance in the hierarchy of letters 
or the relative value of their poetical achievement. 
If, however, the inclusion of Daniel's stately Epistle to 
the Countess of Cumberland appear to call for justifica- 
tion in view of what has been said as to the domin- 
ance, in the following pages, of the lyric note, such 
justification may surely be found in the fact that this 
noble poem represents one of the loftiest expressions 
of its author's contemplative and "well-languaged" 


Mat, 1906. 

1 "There is probably no French lyrist of his generation whose 
work Lodge did not assimilate in greater or less degree. . . . 
Most of his sonnets to Phillis were written with the first book of 
Ronsard's Amours at his elbow." — Sidney Lee {ibid.). 

Thomas Lodge 
Rosalind's Madrigal 

Love in my bosom like a bee 
Doth suck his sweet : 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast, 
My kisses are his daily feast ; 
And yet he robs me of my rest : — 
"Ah, wanton, will ye ?" 

And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee 
The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, 
He music plays if so I sing, 
He lends me every lovely thing ; 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : — 
" Whist, wanton, still ye 1 

" Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence, 
And bind you, when you long to play, 
For your offence ; 
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
HI count your power not worth a pin.' 
Alas, what hereby shall I win, 
If he gainsay me? 


Thomas Lodge 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod ? 
He will repay me with annoy, 
Because a god. 
" Then sit you safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be, 
Lurk in mine eyes, — I like of thee ; 
O Cupid, so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee." ] 


Montanus Protestation of 
his Love 

First shall the heavens want starry light, 
The seas be robbed of their waves, 
The day want sun, the sun want bright, 
The night want shade, the dead men graves, 
The April, flowers and leaf and tree, 
Before I false my faith to thee. 

First shall the tops of highest hills 

By humble plains be overpried, 

And poets scorn the Muses' quills, 

And fish forsake the water-glide, 
And Iris lose her coloured weed, 
Before I fail thee at thy need. 

First direful hate shall turn to peace, 
And love relent in deep disdain, 
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, 
And envy pity every pain, 

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile, 

Before I talk of any guile. 

First Time shall stay his stayless race, 
And Winter bless his boughs with corn, 

Thomas Lodge 

And snow bemoisten July's face, 
And Winter spring, and Summer mourn, 
Before my pen, by help of Fame, 
Cease to recite thy sacred name. 


Montanus Praise of his Fair 

Phcebb sat, sweet she sat, 

Sweet sat Phoebe when I saw her : 
White her brow, coy her eye, — 

Brow and eye, how much you please me ! 
Words I spent, sighs I sent, — v \ 

Sighs and words could never draw her. 
Oh, my love, thou art lost, 

Since no sight could ever ease thee. 

Phoebe sat by a fount, 

Sitting by a fount I spied her : 
Sweet her touch, rare her voice, — 

Touch and voice, what may distain l you ? . 
As she sung, I did sigh, 

And by sighs whilst that I tried her, 
Oh, mine eyes, you did lose 

Her first sight, whose want did pain you. 

Phoebe's flocks, white as wool, 

Yet were Phoebe's looks more whiter ; 
Phoebe's eyes dove-like mild, 

Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel ; 
Montan swears, in your lamps 

He will die for to delight her. 
Phoebe, yield, or I die ; — 

Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ? 

1 Stain, sully. 


Thomas Lodge 
Rosader s Praise of Rosalind 

Like to the clear in highest sphere, 

Where all imperial glory shines, 
Of self-same colour is her hair, 

Whether unfolded or in twines : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline 1 
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 

Refining heaven by every wink ; 
The gods do fear whenas they glow, 

And I do tremble when I think : 
Heigh ho, would she were mine 1 

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 

That beautifies Aurora's face, 
Or like the silver crimson shroud 

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her lips are like two budded roses 

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, 
Within which bounds the balm encloses, 

Apt to entice a deity : 
Heigh ho, would she were mine 1 

Her neck, like to a stately tower 

Where Love himself imprisoned lies, 
To watch for glances every hour 

From her divine and sacred eyes : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her paps are centres of delight, 

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, 
Where nature moulds the dew of light 

To feed perfection with the same : 
Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
With marble white, with sapphire blue, 


Thomas Lodge 

Her body every way is fed, 
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view ; 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Nature herself her shape admires. 

The gods are wounded in her sight ; 
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan 

The absence of fair Rosaline, 
Since for her fair there's fairer none, 
Nor for her virtues so divine : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine ! 


Rosader's Second "Sonnet" 

Turn I my looks unto the skies, 

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ; 

If so I gaze upon the ground, .'/ 

Love then in every flower is found ; v 

Search I the shade to fly my pain, 

Love meets me in the shade again ; 

Wend I to walk in secret grove, 

E'en there I meet with sacred love ; 

If so I bain 1 me in the spring, 

E'en on the brink I hear him sing ; 

If so I meditate alone, 

He will be partner of my moan ; 

If so I mourn, he weeps with me ; 

And where I am, there will he be. 

(Abridged from Rosalind.) 

i Bathe. 


Thomas Lodge 
Coridon's Song 

A blithe and bonny country lass — 

Heigh ho, the bonny lass ! — 
' Sat sighing on the tender grass. 

And weeping said, u Will none come woo me ? " 
A smicker 1 boy, a lither swain, — 

Heigh ho, a smicker swain 1 — 
That in his love was wanton fain, 

With smiling looks straight came unto her. 

Whenas the wanton wench espied, — 

Heigh ho, when she espied ! — 
The means to make herself a bride, 

She simpered smooth like bonny-bell. 
The swain that saw her squint-eyed kind, — 

Heigh ho, squint-eyed kind ! — 
His arms about her body twined, 

And said, " Fair lass, how fare ye ? well ? " 

The country kit said, " Well, forsooth,"— 

Heigh ho, well forsooth ! — 
* But that I have a longing tooth, 

A longing tooth that makes me cry." 
"Alas ! " said he, "what gars thy grief?"— 

Heigh ho, what gars thy grief? — 
" A wound," quoth she, " without relief : 

I fear a maid that I shall die." 

" If that be all," the shepherd said,— 

Heigh ho, the shepherd said ! — 
" I'll make thee wive it, gentle maid, 

And so recure thy malady." 
Hereon they kissed with many an oath, — 

Heigh ho, with many an oath 1 — 
And 'fore god Pan did plight their troth ; 

So to the church apace they hie. 

1 Gay, spruce. 

Thomas Lodge 

And God send every pretty peat, 1 — 

Heigh ho, the pretty peat ! — 
That fears to die of this conceit, 

So kind a friend to help at last. 
Then maids shall never long again, — 

Heigh ho, to long again ! — 
When they find ease for such a pain : 

Thus my roundelay is past 


Love and Phyllis 

Love guards the roses of thy lips, 
And flies about them like a bee ; 

If I approach, he forward skips-, 
And if I kiss, he stingeth me. 

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, 
And sleeps within their pretty shine ; 

And if I look, the boy will lower, 
And from their orbs shoot shafts -divine. 

Love works thy heart within his fire, 
And in my tears doth firm the same, 

And if I tempt it, will retire, 
And of my plaints doth make a game. 

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers, 
And pity me, and calm her eye ; „ 

Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers, 
Then. will I praise thy deity. 

. But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her 
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. 

, iPet. 

9 The concluding four lines are added from England *s Helicon 
from which the arrangement of the last two stanzas is adopted. 


Thomas Lodge 

To Phyllis, the Fair 

My Phyllis hath the morning sun, t 

At first to look upon her ; 
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds 

Her risings for to honour. 
My PhyUis hath prime-feathered flowers 

That smile when she treads on them ;- 
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock 

That leaps since she doth own them. 
But Phyllis hath so hard a heart, — 

Alas, that she should have it 1 — ' * 
As yields no mercy to desert, . „ 

Nor grace to those that crave it. 
Sweet sun, when thou look'st on, 
Pray her regard my moan ; 
Sweet birds, when you sing to her, 

- To yield some pity, woo her ; 

\ Sweet nWrs, whenas she treads on, 

- Tell her, her beauty deads one ; 
And if in life her love she nill agree me, 
Pray her before I die she will come see me. 



Fair art thou, Phyllis" 

Fair art thou, Phyllis ; ay, so fair, sweet maid, 
As nor the sun nor I have seen more fair ; 
For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed, 1 
And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair. 
Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue, 
And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath : 
About thy neck do all the graces throng, 
And lay such baits as might evtangle Death. 
* Enclosed. 

Thomas Lodge 

In such a breast what heart would not be thrall ? 

From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces ? 

At thy fair hands who wonders not at all 

Wonder itself through ignorance embases. 1 

Yet, natheless, though wondrous gifts you call these, 

My faith is far more wonderful than all these. 


" O, happy Love ! " 

A VERY Phoenix, in her radiant eyes 

I leave mine age, and get my life again : 

True Hesperus, I watch her fall and rise, 

And with my tears extinguish all my pain. 

My lips for shadows shield her springing roses ; 

Mine eyes for watchmen guard her while she sleepeth ; 

My reasons serve to quiet her faint supposes. 

Her fancy mine, my faith her fancy, keepeth : 

She, flower; I, branch; her sweets my sours sup 

porteth ; — 
O, happy Love, where such delights consorteth ! 

(Scyllcts Metamorphosis.) 

A Lament in Spring 

The earth, late choked with showers, 

Is now arrayed in green ; 
Her bosom springs with flowers, 
The air dissolves her teen : * 
The heavens laugh at her glory, 
Yet bide I sad and sorry. 

The woods are decked with leaves, 
The trees are clothed gay, 

X Is humbled. * Sorrow. 


Thomas Lodge 

And Flora, crowned with sheaves, 
With oaken boughs doth play ; 
Where I am clad in black, 
The token of my wrack. 

The birds upon the trees 

Do sing with pleasant voices, 
And chant in their degrees 
Their loves and lucky choices ; 
When I, whilst they are singing, 
With sighs mine arms am wringing. 

The thrushes seek the shade, 

And I my fatal grave ; 
Their flight to heaven is made, 
My walk on earth I have ; 
They free, I thrall ; they jolly, 
I sad and pensive wholly. 

(Scyllats Metamorphosis.) 

" Fair Phoebus' Flower upon 
a Summer Morn" 

Fair Phoebus' flower upon a summer morn, 
'Gan, proud with love, to show her painted pride, 
And, gay with glory, with a curious scorn 
Disdained those buds that blossomed her beside ; 

When Rose and Lilies, Violets and Balm 
(Scarce warmed to work their beauties to a flow'r) 
With envious wrath near to a water calm 
Behold my Phyllis in a happy hour. 

• Not waked, nor won too much with solemn sleep, 
But sweetly slumb'ring, they behold my Saint : 
The Rose and Lilies both together creep ; 
.The one her lip, the next her cheek, did taint. 

Thomas Lodge 

And both they spread ; the Violet, consumed 
To gentle air, her amber breath fulfilled : 
Apollo, feeling all the air perfumed, 
With gentle beams into her eyes distilled. 

His flower, amazed, gave Rose and Lilies place ; 
The Sun his shine within her eyes containeth ; 
The Rose her lips, the Lilies deck her face ; 
The Violet within her breath remaineth. 


Then cease, fond men, henceforth to boast your flowVs, 
Since Roses, Lilies, Violets are ours, 
And Phoebus' flower doth homage to their pow'rs, 
And Phyllis' eye his glorious beams devours. 

(Scy/Iats Metamorphosis.) 

Imitated from the Italian of 

O shady vales, O fair enriched meads, 
O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains; 
O painted flowers, green herbs, where Flora treads, 
Refreshed by wanton winds and wat'ry fountains ! 
O all you winged choristers of wood, 
That, perched aloft, your former pains report, 
And straight again recount with pleasant mood 
Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort ! 
O all you creatures, whosoever thrive 
On mother earth, in seas, by air, or fire, — 
More blest are you than I here under sun : 
Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive 
In you ; I perish under Beauty's ire, 
Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won. 
(A Margarite of America,) 
P. fl B 17 

Thomas Lodge 

"For Pity, Pretty Eyes" { 

For pity, pretty eyes, surcease 

To give me war, and grant me peace. 

Triumphant eyes, why bear you arms 

Against a heart that thinks no harms ? 

A heart already quite appalled, 

A heart that yields and is enthralled ? 

Kill rebels, proudly that resist ; j 

Not those that in true faith persist, 
And conquered serve your aeity. » 

Will you, alas, command me die ? ' ' 

Then die I yours, and death my cross ; 
But unto you pertains the loss. Tt 

{The Phcem* JSfest.) 

! Fl 

" Accurst be Love!" i 

ACCURST be Love, and those that trust his trains ! 

He tastes the fruit whilst others toil ; 

He brings the lamp, we lend the oil ; J t 

He sows distress, we yield him soil ; 

He wageth war, we bide the foil. I 

Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains ! j \ 

He lays the trap, we seek the snare ; j ] 
He threat'neth death, we speak him fair ; 

He coins deceits, we foster care ; I 

He favoureth pride, we count it rare. . I 

Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains 1 j 

He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art ; 
He vows content, he pays with smart ; 1 

18 \ 

Thomas Lodge 

He swears relief, yet kills the heart ; 
He calls for truth, yet scorns desart. 
Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains ! 
Whose heaven is hell, whose perfect joys are pains. 

{The Phoenix* Nest) 

A Distressed Mothers 

v* Lullaby: 
•' Ah, little lads, 
Give ceaseless sorrow end with lullaby ; 
: Suck up my tears 
That stream from out the fountains of mine eye ; 
Feed, feed on me 
Whom no good hope or fortune glads,— 
O, set me free 
From those incessant and pursuing fears 
Which waken up my woes and kill my pleasure. 

Lullaby : 
- Weep, weep no more, 
But let me weep, and, weeping, weep life hence, 
• That, whilst you want, 
I may not see false Fortune's proud pretence : 
» When I am dead, 
My God, perhaps, will send you store. 
O, smile in need, — 
Poor hungry babes, let smiles be nothing scant : 
I, tears ; you, smiles ;— both have no better treasure 
To bring these woes exceeding mean or measure 
To lullaby. 
(The Life and Death of William Longbeard) 


Robert Greene 
Menaphon's Song 

Some say, Love, 
Foolish Love, 

Doth rule and govern all the gods : 
I say, Love, 
Inconstant Love, 

Sets men's senses far at odds. 
Some swear, Love, 
Smooth-faced Love, 

Is sweetest sweet that men can have : 
I say, Love, 
Sour Love, 

Makes virtue yield as beauty's slave ; 
A bitter sweet, a folly worst of all, 
That forceth wisdom to be folly's thrall 

Love is sweet ? 
Wherein sweet ? 

In fading pleasures that do pain ? 
Beauty sweet ? 
Is that sweet 

That yieldeth sorrow for a gain ? 
If Love's sweet, 
Herein sweet, 

That minutes' joys are monthly woes : 
'Tis not sweet * 

That is sweet 

Nowhere but where repentance grows. 
Then love who list, if beauty be so sour ; 
Labour for me, Love rest in prince's bower. 




Robert Greene 

Sephestia's Song to her Child 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 
• Mother's wag, pretty boy, , 

' Father's sorrow, father's joy ; 

When thy father first did see 

Such a boy by him and me, 

He was glad, I was woe ; 

Fortune changed made him so 

When he left his pretty boy, 

Last his sorrow, first his joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

Streaming tears that never stint, 

Like pearl drops from a flint, 

Fell by course from his eyes, 

That one another's place supplies ; 

Thus he grieved in every part, 

Tears of blood fell from his heart, 

When he left his pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's jdy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

The wanton smiled, father wept, 

Mother cried, baby leapt ; 

More he crowed, more we cried, 

Nature could not sorrow hide : 

He must go, he must kiss 

Child and mother, baby bless, 

For he left his pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 



Robert Greene 

Menaphons Roundelay 

When tender ewes, brought home with evening sun, 

Wend to their folds, 

And to their holds 
The shepherds trudge when light of day is done, 

Upon a tree 
The eagle, Jove's fair bird, did perch ; 

There resteth he. 
A little fly his harbour then did search, 
And did presume, though others laughed thereat, 
To perch whereas the princely eagle sat. 

The eagle frowned, and shook his royal wings, 

And charged the fly 

From thence to hie : 
Afraid, in haste, the little creature flings, 

Yet seeks again, 
Fearful, to perk him by the eagle's side. 

With moody vein, 
The speedy post of Ganymede replied, 
" Vassal, avaunt, or with my wings you die ; 
Is't fit an eagle seat him with a fly ? n 

The fly craved pity, still the eagle frowned ; 

The silly fly, 

Ready to die, 
Disgraced, displaced, fell grovelling to the ground : 

The eagle saw, 
And with a royal mind said to the fly, 

" Be not in awe, 
I scorn by me the meanest creature die ; 
Then seat thee here." The joyful fly up flings, 
And sat safe shadowed with the eagle's wings. 



Robert Greene 

Dorons Description of 

Like to Diana in her summer weed, 
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 

Goes fair Samela ; 
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, 
When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, 

Is fair Samela ; 
As fair Aurora in her morning grey, 
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, 

Is fair Samela ; 
Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move , 

Shines fair Samela ; 
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, 
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 

Of fair Samela ; 
Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams, 
Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony : 

Thus fair Samela 
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 
And Juno in the show of majesty, 

For she's Samela; 
Pallas in wit ; — all three, if you well view, 
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity, 

Yield to Samela. 


Dorons Jig 

Through the shrubs as I 'gan crack 
For my lambs, little ones, 
'Mongst many pretty ones 
(Nymphs I mean) whose hair was black 
As the crow ; 
Like the snow 


Robert Greene 

Her face and brows shined, I ween ; 
I saw a little one, 
A bonny pretty one, 
As bright, buxom, and as sheen, 
As was she 
On her knee 
That lulled the god whose arrow warms 
Such merry little ones, 
Such fair-faced pretty ones, 
As dally in love's chiefest harms : 
Such was mine, 
Whose grey eyne 
Made me love. I 'gan to woo 
This sweet little one, 
This bonny pretty one ; 
I wooed hard a day or two, 

Till she bade— 
* Be not sad, 
Woo no more, I am thine own, 
Thy dearest little one, 
Thy truest pretty one.' 
Thus was faith and firm love shown, 
As behoves 
Shepherds' loves. 


Melicertus' Description of 
his Mistress 

(Tune on ? my pipe, the praises of my love, 
And midst thy oaten harmony recount 
How fair she is that makes thy music mount, 

And every string of thy heart's harp to move. 

Shall I compare her form unto the sphere, 
Whence sun-bright Venus vaunts her silver shine ? 
Ah, more than that by just compare is thine, 

Whose crystal looks the cloudy heavens do clear. 

Robert Greene 

How oft have I descending Titan seen 
His burning locks couch in the sea-queen's lap, 
And beauteous Thetis his red body wrap 

In watery robes, as he her lord had been ; 

Whenas my nymph, impatient of the night, 
Bade bright Atraeus with his train give place, 
Whiles she led forth the day with her fair face, 

And lent each star a more than Delian light. 

Not Jove or Nature, should they both agree 
To make a woman of the firmament 
Of his mixed purity, could not invent 

A sky-born form so beautiful as she. 

"What Thing is Love?" 

What thing is love ? It is a power divine 
That reigns in us, or else a wreakful law 
That dooms our minds to beauty to incline ; 
It is a star, whose influence doth draw 

Our hearts to love, dissembling of his might 
Till he be master of our hearts and sight. 

Love is a discord, and a strange divorce 
Betwixt our sense and reason, by whose power, 
As mad with reason, we admit that force 
Which wit or labour never may devour ; 
It is a will that brooketh no consent : 
It would refuse, yet never may repent. 

Love's a desire, which for to wait a time, 
Doth lose an age of years, and so doth pass, 
As doth the shadow, severed from his prime, 
Seeming as though it were, yet never was ; 

Leaving behind nought but repentant thoughts 
Of days ill spent, for that which profits noughts. 


Robert Greene 

It's now a peace, and then a sudden war ; 

A hope consumed before it is conceived ; 

At hand it fears, and menaceth afar ; 

And he that gains is most of all deceived : 
It is a secret hidden and not known, 
Which one may better feel than write upon. 


Prince Psammetichus' 

[" One of the Chaldees, having an insight into the lascivious 
life of[Psammetichus], persuaded him to desist from such fading 
pleasures, whose momentary delights did breed lasting reproach 
and infamy ; the young prince, making light account of his 
words, went into his study and wrote him an answer sonnet-wise 
to this effect : "] 

In Cyprus sat fair Venus by a fount, 

Wanton Adonis toying on her knee : 
She kissed the wag, her darling of account ; 
The boy 'gan blush, which when his lover see^ 
She smiled, and told him love might challenge debt, 
And he was young, and might be wanton yet. 

The boy waxed bold, fired by fond desire, 

That woo he could and court her with conceit : 
Reason spied this, and sought to quench the fire I 

With cold disdain ; but wily Adon straight 4 

Cheered up the flame, and said, " Good Sir, what let ? 
I am but young, and may be wanton yet" 

Reason replied, that beauty was a bane 

To such as feed their fancy with fond love, 
That when sweet youth with lust is overtaken, 
It rues in age : this could not Adon move, 
For Venus taught him still this rest to set, 
That he was young, and might be wanton yet. 

Where Venus strikes with beauty to the quick, 
It little 'vails sage Reason to reply ; i 

26 j 

Robert Greene 

Few are the cares for such as are love-sick, 
But love : then, though I wanton it awry, 
And play the wag, from Adon this I get, 
I am but young, and may be wanton yet. 

(Perimedes, the Blacksmith.) 

The Old Man's Reply 

The Siren Venus nourished in her lap 

Fair Adon, swearing whiles he was a youth 
He might be wanton : note his after-hap, 
The guerdon that such lawless lust ensu'th ; 
So long he followed flattering Venus' lore, 
Till, seely l lad, he perished by a boar. 

Mars in his youth did court this lusty dame, 

He won her love ; what might his fancy let 
He was but young ? at last, unto his shame, 
Vulcan entrapped them slily in a net, 
And called the Gods to witness as a truth, 
A lecher's fault was not excused by youth. 

If trooked age accounteth youth his spring, 
The spring, the fairest season of the year, 
Enriched with flowers, and sweets, and many a thing 
That fair and gorgeous to the eyes appear ; 
It fits that youth, the spring of man, should be 
'Riched with such flowers as virtue yieldeth thee. 

(Perimedes, the Blacksmith.) 

" Fair is my Love " 

Fair is my love, for April in her face, 

Her lovely breasts September claims his part, 
And lordly July in her eyes takes place, 
But cold December dwelleth in her heart : 
Blest be the months, that set my thoughts on fire, 
Accurst that month that hindereth my desire ! 
1 Simple. 

Robert Greene 

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes ; 
As air perfumed with amber is her breath ; 
Like swelling waves, her lovely teats do rise ; 
As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death : 
Ah me, poor man, that on the earth do live, 
When unkind earth death and despair doth give 1 

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face ; 

Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint ; 
Her eyes shine favour, courtesy, and grace ; 
But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of Hint ! 
Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain ; 
The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain. 


Phyllis and Condon 

Phyllis kept sheep along the western plains, 

And Coridon did feed his flocks hard by : 
This shepherd was the flower of all the swains 
That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly, 
And Phyllis, that did far her flocks surpass 
In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass. 

A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire, 
Was lovely Phyllis, Coridon swore so ; 
Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire, 
He left his lambs, and he began to woo ; 
He looked, he sighed, he courted with a kiss, 
No better could the silly swad * than this. 

He little knew to paint a tale of love, — 

Shepherds can fancy, but they cannot say : 
Phyllis 'gan smile, arid wily thought to prove 
What uncouth grief poor Coridon did pay ; 
She asked him how his flocks or he did fare, 
Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care. 

i Clown. 

Robert Greene 

The shepherd blushed when Phyllis questioned so, 

And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks ; 
"Tis love, fair Phyllis, breedeth all this woe, 
My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks, 
Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire ; 
Fair Phyllis kindleth Condon's desire." 

" Can shepherds love?" said Phyllis to the swain ; 

" Such saints as Phyllis," Coridon replied ; 
" Men when they lust can many fancies feign," 
Said Phyllis ; this not Coridon denied, 
" That lust had lies, but love," quoth he, " says truth ; 
Thy shepherd loves,— then, Phyllis, what ensu'th?" 

Phyllis was won, she blushed and hung the head ; 

The swain stepped to, and cheered her with a kiss ; 
With faith, with troth, they struck the matter dead ; 
So used they when men thought not amiss : 
This love begun and ended both in one ; 
Phyllis was loved, and she liked Coridon. {Ibid.) 

Dorastus Praise of Fawnia 

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, 

Or but as mild as she is seeming so, 
Then were my hopes greater than my despair, 

Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. 
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand, 

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, 
Then knew I where to seat me in a land 

Under wide heavens, but yet [there is] not such. 
So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, 

Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower ; 
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, 

Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower : 
Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, 
She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. 

Ah, when she singg, all music else be still, 
For none must be compared to her note ; 

Robert Greene 

Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, 
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. 

Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed, 
She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, 

And at her sight the night's foul vapours fled ; 
When she is set, the gladsome day is done. 

O glorious sun, imagine me the west, 

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast ! 


Maesias Song 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; 

The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; 

The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : 
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbours quiet rest ; 

The cottage that affords no pride nor care ; 
The mean that 'grees with country music best ; 

The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare ; 
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 
A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

{Farewell to Folly.) 

An Ode 

Down the valley 'gan he track, 
Bag and bottle at his back, 
In a surcoat all of gray ; — 
Such wear palmers on the way, 
When with scrip and staff they see 
Jesus' grave on Calvary ; — 
A hat of straw, like a swain, 
Shelter for the sun and rain, 
With a scallop shell before ; 
Sandals on his feet he wore ; 

Robert Greene 

Legs were bare, arms unclad : 
** Such attire this palmer had. 
His face fair like Titan's shine ; 
Gray and buxom were his eyne, 
Whereout dropped pearls of sorrow : 
Such sweet tears love doth borrow, 
When in outward dews she plains 
Heart's distress that lovers pains ; 
Ruby lips, cherry cheeks : 
Such rare mixture Venus seeks, 
When to keep her damsels quiet, 
Beauty sets them down their diet. 
Adon was not thought more fair ; 
CurlM locks of amber hair, 
Locks where love did sit and twine 
.Nets to snare the gazer's eyne. 
Such a palmer ne'er was seen, 
'Less Love himself had palmer been. 
Yet, for all he was so quaint, 
Sorrow did his visage taint : 
'Midst the riches of his face, 
Grief deciphered high disgrace. 
Every step strained a tear ; 
Sudden sighs showed his fear ; 
And yet his fear by his sight 
Ended in a strange delight, 
That his passions did approve, 
Weeds and sorrow were for love. 

(Never Too Late.) 

The Palmers Ode 

Old Menalcas, on a day, 
As in field this shepherd lay, 
Tuning of his oaten pipe, 
Which he hit with many a stripe, 
Said to Coridon that he 
Once was young and full of glee. 
" Blithe and wanton was I then : 
Such desires follow men. 


Robert Greene 

As I lay and kept my sheep, 

Came the God that hateth sleep, 

Clad in armour all of fire, 

Hand in hand with queen Desire, 

And with a dart that wounded nigh, 

Pierced my heart as I did lie ; 

That when I woke I 'gan swear 

Phyllis beauty's palm did bear. 

Up I start, forth went I, 

With her face to feed mine eye ; 

There I saw Desire sit, 

That my heart with love had hit, 

Laying forth bright beauty's hooks 

To entrap my gazing looks. 

Love I did, and 'gan to woo, 

Pray and sigh ; all would not do : 

Women, when they take the toy, 

Covet to be counted coy. 

Coy she was, and I 'gan court ; 

She thought love was but a sport ; 

Profound hell was in my thought : 

Such a pain desire had wrought, 

That I sued with sighs and tears ; 

Still ingrate, she stopped her ears, 

Till my youth I had spent 

Last a passion of repent 

Told me flat, that Desire 

Was a brand of love's fire, 

Which consumeth men in thrall, 

Virtue, youth, wit, and alL 

At this saw back I start, 

Beat Desire from my heart, 

Shook off Love, and made an oath 

To be enemy to both. 

Old I was when thus I fled 

Such fond toys as cloyed my head ; 

But this I learned at Virtue's gate, 

The way to good is never late." 

Nunquam sera est ad bonos mores via. 



Robert Greene 

Isabel's Ode 1 

Sitting by a river side, 
Where a silent stream did glide, 
Banked about with choice flowers, 
Such as spring from April showers, 
When fair Iris smiling shows 
All her riches in her dews ; 
Thick-leaved trees so were planted 
As nor Art nor Nature wanted ; 
Bord'ring all the brook with shade 
As if Venus there had made 
By Flora's wile a curious bower 
To dally with her paramour. 
At this current as I gazed, 
Eyes entrapped, mind amazed, 
I might see in my ken 
Such a flame as fireth men, 
Such a fire as doth fry 
With one blaze both heart and eye, 
Such a heat as doth prove 
No heat like to heat of love. 
Bright she was, — for 'twas a she 
That traced her steps towards me ; 
On her head she wore a bay, 
To fence Phoebus' light away ; 
In her face one might descry 
The curious beauty of the sky ; 
Her eyes carried darts of fire, 
Feathered all with swift desire ; 
Yet forth these fiery darts did pass 
Pearled tears as bright as glass, 
That wonder 'twas in her eyne 
. Fire and water should combine — 
If th' old saw did not borrow 
Fire is love and water sorrow. 

1 Cf. the opening couplet of " Philomela's Ode " in Philomela. 
(See p. 44.) 

P. 8 c 33 

Robert Greene 

Down she sat, pale and sad, 

No mirth in her looks she had : 

Face and eyes showed distress, — 

Inward sighs discoursed no less ; 

Head on hand might I see, 

Elbow leaned on her knee ; 

Last she breathed out this saw : 

" O, that love hath no law ! 

Love enforceth with constraint, 

Love delighteth in complaint ; 

Whoso loves hates his life, 

For love's peace is mind's strife ; 

Love doth feed on beauty's fare, 

Every dish sauced with care : 

Chiefly women reason why 

Love is hatched in their eye ; 

Thence it steppeth to the heart; 

There it poisoneth every part, 

Mind and heart, eye and thought, 

Till sweet love their woes hath wrought ; 

Then, repentant, they 'gan cry — 

* O, my heart, that trowed * mine eye ! ' " 

Thus she said, and then she rose, 
Face and mind both full of woes, 
Flinging thence, with this saw, — 
Fie on love that hath no law / 


Francesco's Ode 

When I look about the place 
Where sorrow nurseth up disgrace, 
Wrapped within a fold of cares, 
Whose distress no heart spares ; 
Eyes mi^ht look, but see no light, 
Heart might think but on despite ; 
Sun did shine, but not on me. 
Sorrow said, it may not be 

1 Trusted. 

Robert Greene 

That heart or eye should once possess 
Any salve to cure distress ; 
For men in prison must suppose 
Their couches are the beds of woes. 
Seeing this, I sighed then 
Fortune thus should punish men : 
But when I called to mind her face, 
For whose love I brook this place, — 
Starry eyes, whereat my sight 
Did eclipse with much delight, 
Eyes that lighten, and do shine, 
Beams of love that are divine ; 
Lily cheeks, whereon beside 
Buds of roses show their pride ; 
Cherry lips, which did speak 
Words that made all hearts to break, 
Words most sweet, for breath was sweet 
(Such perfume for love is meet.) 
Precious words, as hard to tell 
Which more pleased, wit or smell ; — 
When I saw my greatest pains 
Grow for her that beauty stains, 
Fortune thus I did reprove : 
Nothing griejjul grows from love. 


N'oserez-vous, mon bel ami 
(Infida's Song) 

Sweet Adon, dar'st not glance thine eye — 

N y oserez vous, mon bel ami ? — 
Upon thy Venus that must die ? 

Je vous enprie, pity me ; 
Nyoserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 
fposerez vous, mon bel ami? 

See how sad thy Venus lies, — 
N y oserez vous, mon bel ami? — 


Robert Greene 

Love in heart, and tears in eyes ; 

Je vous en prie, pity me ; 
N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 
N'oserez vous, mon belamit 

Thy face as fair as Paphos' brooks, — 
N'oserez vous, mon bel omit — 

Wherein Fancy baits her hooks ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

N'oserez vous, mon bel ami t 

Thy cheeks like cherries that do grow — 
N'oserez vous, mon belamit — 

Amongst the western mounts of snow ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? 

Thy lips vermilion, full of love, — 
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? — 

Thy neck as silver-white as dove ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

N'oserez vous, mon bel ami '? 

Thine eyes, like names of holy fires, — 
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? — 

Burn all my thoughts with sweet desires ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

Woserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? 

All thy beauties sting my heart ; — 
N'oserez vous, mon bel ami t — 

I must die through Cupid's dart ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

N'oserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

N'oserez vous, mon bel ami? 


Robert Greene 

Wilt thou let thy Venus die? 

N*oserez vous, mon bel ami? — 
Adon were unkind, say I, — . 

Je vous enprie, pity me ; 
Noserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 
APoserez vous, mon bel ami? 

To let fair Venus die for woe, — 
N*oserez vous, mon bel ami t — 

That doth love sweet Adon so ; 
Je vous en prie, pity me ; 

flPoserez vous, mon bel, mon bel, 

Noserez vous, mon bel amif 


Francesco's Sonnet 
(Called his Parting Blow) 

REASON, that long in prison of my will 

Hast wept thy mistress' wants and loss of time, 

Thy wonted siege of honour safely climb : 

To thee I yield as guilty of mine ill. 

Lo, fettered in their tears, mine eyes are pressed 

To pay due homage to their native guide : 

My wretched heart, wounded with bad betide, 

To crave his peace from reason is addressed. 

My thoughts ashamed, since by themselves consumed, 

Have done their duty to repentant wit : 

Ashamed of all, sweet guide, I sorry sit, 

To see in youth how I too far presumed. 

Thus he whom love and error did betray 

Subscribes to thee and takes the better way. 



Robert Greene 

Eurymachus in laudem 

When Flora, proud in pomp of all her flowers, 

Sat bright and gay, 
And gloried in the dew of Iris' showers, 

And did display 
Her mantle chequered all with gaudy green ; 

Then I 

A mournful man in Erecine was seen. 

With folded arms I trampled through the grass, 

Tracing as he 
That held the throne of Fortune brittle glass, 

And love to be, 
Like Fortune, fleeting as the restless wind, 


With mists, 
Whose damp doth make the clearest eyes grow blind. 

Thus in a maze, 1 spied a hideous flame ; 

I cast my sight 
And saw where, blithely bathing in the same 

With great delight, 
A worm did lie, wrapped in a smoky sweat ; 

And yet 

Twas strange, 
It careless lay and shrunk not at the heat. 

I stood amazed and wondering at the sight, 

While that a dame, 
That shone like to the heaven's rich sparkling light 

Discoursed the same ; 
And said, " My friend, this worm within the fire, 

Which lies 

Is Venus' worm, and represents desire. 


Robert Greene 

" A salamander is this princely beast : 

Decked with a crown, 
Given him by Cupid as a gorgeous crest 

'Gainst fortune's frown. 
Content he lies and bathes him in the flame, 

And goes 

Not forth, 
For why, he cannot live without the same. 

" As he, so lovers lie within the fire 

Of fervent love, 
And shrink not from the flame of hot desire, 

Nor will not move 
From any heat that Venus' force imparts, 

But lie 

Within a fire, and waste away their hearts." 

Up flew the dame, and vanished in a cloud, 

But there stood I, 
And many thoughts within my mind did shroud 

Of love ; for why, 
I felt within my heart a scorching fire, 

And yet, 

As did 
The salamander, 'twas my whole desire. 


Radagon in Dianam 

It was a valley gaudy green, 
Where Dian at the fount was seen ; 

Green it was, 

And did pass 
All other of Diana's bowers, 
In the pride of Flora's flowers. 

A fount it was that no sun sees, 
Circled in with cypress trees, 


Robert Greene 

Set so nigh 

As Phoebus' eye 
Could not do the virgins scathe, 
To see them naked when they bathe. 

She sat there all in white, 
Colour fitting her delight : 

Virgins so 

Ought to go. 
For white in armory is placed 
To be the colour that is chaste. 

Her taffeta cassock might you see 
Tucked up above her knee, 

Which did show 

There below 
Legs as white as whale's bone, — 
So white and chaste were never none. 

Hard by her, upon the ground, 
Sat her virgins in a round 

Bathing their 

Golden hair, 
And singing all in notes high, 
" Fie on Venus' flattering eye ! 

Fie on love, it is a toy ; 
Cupid witless and a boy ; 

All his fires, 

And desires, 
Are plagues that God sent down from high, 
To pester men with misery." 

As thus the virgins did disdain 
Lovers' joys and lovers' pain, 

Cupid nigh 

Did espy, 
Grieving at Diana's song, 
Slyly stole these maids among. 

Robert Greene 

His bow of steel, darts of fire, 

He shot amongst them sweet desire, 

Which straight flies 

In their eyes, 
And at the entrance made them start, 
For it ran from eye to heart. 

Calisto straight supposed Jove 
Was fair and frolic for to love ; 

Dian she 

'Scaped not free, 
For, well I wot, hereupon 
She loved the swain Endymion ; 

Clytia, Phoebus ; and Chloris' eye 
Thought none so fair as Mercury : 

Venus thus 

Did discuss 
By her son in darts of fire, 
None so chaste to check desire. 

Dian rose with all her maids, 
Blushing thus at love's braids. 1 

With sighs, all 

Show their thrall ; 
And flinging hence pronounce this saw, — 
What so strong as love's sweet law t 


Doralicias Song 

In time we see the silver drops 
The craggy stones make soft ; 

The slowest snail in time we see 
Doth creep and climb aloft. 

With feeble puffs the tallest pine 

In tract of time doth fall ; 
The hardest heart in time doth yield 
To Venus' luring call. 
1 Reproaches, upbraidings. 

Robert Greene 

Where chilling frost alate did nip 

There flasheth now a fire ; 
Where deep disdain bred noisome hate 

There kindleth now desire. 

Time causeth hope to have his hap, — 
What care in time not eased ? 

In time I loathed that now I love, 
In both content and pleased. 


The Shepherd s Wife's Song 

Ah, what is love ? It is a pretty thing, 
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king ; 

And sweeter too, 
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, 
And cares can make the sweetest love to frown. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

His flocks are folded, he comes home at night, 
As merry as a king in his delight ; 

And merrier too, 
For kings bethink them what the state require, 
Where shepherds careless carol by the fire. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 

His cream and curds, as doth the king his meat ; 

And blither too, 
For kings have often fears when they do sup, 
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Robert Greene 

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, 
As is a king in dalliance with a queen ; 

More wanton too, 
For kings have many griefs affects to move, 
Where shepherds have no greater grief than love. 

An then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound, 
As doth the king upon his beds of down ; 

More sounder too, 
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe 
As doth the king at every tide or sithe ; * 

And blither too, 
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
When shepherds laugh and love upon the land. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 


Madrigal l 

CUPID abroad was lated in the night ; 
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain : 
Harbour he sought,— to me he took his flight, 
To dry his plumes : I heard the boy complain ; 

1 Time, occasion. 

1 Cf. the Madrigal in A Icida, commtncmg, "Rest thee, Desire, 
gaze not at such a star," where, with slight variations and the 
addition of an introductory stanza, the above lines had pre- 
viously appeared, Alcida was published in 1588, Orpharion in 


Robert Greene \ 

I oped the door, and granted his desire ; 
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire. 

Looking more narrow by the fire's flame, 
I spied his quiver hanging by his back ; 
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame, 
I would nave gone, for fear of further wrack : 
But what I drad did me — poor wretch — betide, 
For forth he drew an arrow from his side. 

He pierced the quick, and I began to start, — 
A pleasing wound, but that it was too high : 
His shaft procured a sharp, yet sugared, smart. 
Away he new, — for why ? his wings were dry — 
But left the arrow sticking in my breast, 
That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. 


Philomelas Ode that she sung 
in her Arbour 1 

Sitting by a river's side, 
Where a silent stream did glide, 
Muse I did of many things 
That the mind in quiet brings. 
I 'gan think how some men deem 
Gold their god ; and some esteem 
Honour is die chief content 
That to man in life is lent ; 
And some others do contend 
Quiet none like to a friend ; 
Others hold, there is no wealth 
Compared to a perfect health ; 
Some man's mind in quiet stands 
When he is lord of many lands : 

1 Cf. the opening couplet of " Isabel's Ode" in Never Too 
Late. (See p. 33.) 



Robert Greene 

But I did sigh, and said all this 
Was but a shade of perfect bliss , 
And in my thoughts I did approve 
Naught so sweet as is true love. 
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, 
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees ; 
With folded arms and lips meeting, 
Each soul another sweetly greeting ; 
For by the breath the soul fleeteth, 
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 
If love be so sweet a thing 
That such happy bliss doth bring, 
Happy is love's sugared thrall ; 
But unhappy maidens all, 
Who esteem your virgin blisses 
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 
No such quiet to the mind 
As true love with kisses kind ; 
But if a kiss prove unchaste 
Then is true love quite disgraced. 

Though love be sweet, learn this of me, 

No love sweet but honesty. 


Lamilia s Song 

Fie, fie, on blind fancy, 

It hinders youth's joy ; 

Fair virgins, learn by me, 

To count love a toy. 
When Love learned first the A B C of delight, 
And knew no figures nor conceited phrase, 
He simply gave to due desert her right, 
He led not lovers in dark winding ways ; 
He plainly willed to love, or flatly answered u No 1 " 
But now who lists to prove, shall find it nothing so. 

Fie, fie then on fancy, 

It hinders youth's joy ; 

Fair virgins, learn by me 

To count love a toy. 


Robert Greene 

For since he learned to use the poef s pen, 
He learned likewise with smoothing words to feign, 
Witching chaste ears with trothless tongues of men, 
And wronged faith with falsehood and disdain. 
He gives a promise now, anon he sweareth " No t " 
Who listeth for to prove shall find his changing so. 

Fie, fie then on fancy, 

It hinders youth's joy ; 

Fair virgins, learn by me 

To count love a toy. 

{Groatsworth of Wit.) 


What meant the poets in invective verse 
To sing Medea's shame, and Scylla's pride, 
Calypso's charms by which so many died ? 
Only for this their vices they rehearse : 
That curious wits which in the world converse, 
May shun the dangers and enticing shows 
Of such false sirens, those home-breeding foes 
That from their eyes their venom do disperse. 
So soon kills not the basilisk with sight ; 
The vipers tooth is not so venomous ; 
The adder's tongue not half so dangerous, 
As they that bear the shadow of delight, 
Who chain blind youths in trammels of their hair, 
Till waste brings woe, and sorrow hastes despair. 


Verses Written in the Poet's 
Last Illness 

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys 
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn, 
And scornest now to lend thy fading joys 
T' outlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn, 

Robert Greene 

How well are they that die ere they be born, 
And never see thy slights, which few men shun 
Till unawares they helpless are undone ! 

Oft have I sung of love and of his fire ; 
But now I find that poet was advised 
Which made full feasts increasers of desire, 
And proves weak love was with the poor despised ; 
For when the life with food is not sufficed, 
What thoughts of love, what motion of delight, 
What pleasance can proceed from such a wight ? 

Witness my want, the murderer of my wit : 
My ravished sense, of wonted fury reft, 
Wants such conceit as should in poems fit 
Set down the sorrow wherein I am left ; 
But therefore have high heavens their gifts bereft, 
Because so long they lent them me to use, 
And I so long their bounty did abuse. 

O that a year were granted me to live, 
And for that year my former wits restored ! 
What rules of life, what counsel would I give, 
How should my sin with sorrow be deplored ! 
But I must die of every man abhorred : 

Time loosely spent will not again be won ; 

My time is loosely spent, and I undone. 



Thomas Lodge and 
Robert Greene 

Wanton Beauty 

Beauty, alas 1 where wast thou born, 
Thus to hold thyself in scorn ? 
Whenas Beauty kissed to woo thee, 
Thou by Beauty dost undo me : 
Heigh ho, despise me not. 

I and thou in sooth are one, 
Fairer thou, I fairer none : 
Wanton thou, and wilt thou, wanton, 

Yield a cruel heart to plant on ? 
Do me right, and do me reason ; 
Cruelty is cursed treason : 

Heigh ho, I love, heigh ho, I love ; 
Heigh ho, and yet he eyes me not 

(A Looking-Glass for London 
and England) 


Samuel Daniel 

The Golden Age 
A Pastoral 

O happy Golden Age, 
Not for that rivers ran 

With streams of milk, and honey dropped from trees ; 
Not that the earth did gage 
Unto the husbandman 
Her voluntary fruits, free without fees ; 
Not for no cold did freeze, 
Nor any cloud beguile 
Th' eternal flowering Spring, 
Wherein lived every thing, 
And whereon th' heavens perpetually did smile ; 
Not for no ship had brought, 
From foreign shores, or wars or wares ill sought 

But only for that name, 
That idle name of wind, 
That idol of deceit, that empty sound 
Called Honour, which became 
The tyrant of the mind, 
And so torments our Nature without ground, 
Was not yet vainly found ; 
Nor yet sad griefs imparts 
Amidst the sweet delights 
Of joyful amorous wights. 

Nor were his hard laws known to free-born hearts, 
But golden laws like these 

Which Nature wrote : Thafs lawful which doth 
P.»D 49 # 

Samuel Daniel 

Then amongst flowers and springs, 
Making delightful sport, 
Sate lovers without conflict, without flame ; 
And nymphs and shepherds sings, 
Mixing in wanton sort 

Whisp'rings with songs, then kisses with the same, 
Which from affection came. 
The naked virgin then 
Her roses fresh reveals, 
Which now her veil conceals, 
The tender apples in her bosom seen ; 
And oft in rivers clear 
The lovers with their loves consorting were. 

Honour, thou first didst close 
The spring of all delight ; 
Denying water to the amorous thirst 
Thou taught'st fair eyes to lose 
The glory of their light, 

Restrained from men, and on themselves reversed. 
Thou in a lawn didst first 
Those golden hairs encase 
Late spread unto the wind. 
Thou mad'st loose grace unkind, 
Gav'st bridle to their words, art to their pace. 
O Honour ! it is thou 
That mak'st that stealth, which Love doth free allow. 

It is thy work that brings 
Our griefs and torments thus. 
But thou, fierce Lord of Nature and of Love, 
The qualifier of Kings, 
What dost thou here with us 
That are below thy power, shut from above ? 
Go, and from us remove ; 
Trouble the mighty's sleep : 
Let us, neglected, base, 
Live still without thy grace, 
And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keep : 
Let's love : this life of ours 
Can make no truce with Time that all devours. 

Samuel Daniel 

Let's love : the sun doth set and rise again ; 

But whenas our short light 

Comes once to set, it makes eternal night 


Are they shadows that we see ? 

And can shadows pleasure give ? 
Pleasures only shadows be, 

Cast by bodies we conceive, 
And are made the things we deem 
^ In those figures which they seem. 

But these pleasures vanish fast 
Which by shadows are expressed : 

Pleasures are not, if they last,— 
In their passing is their best : 

Glory is most bright and gay 

In a flash, and so away. 

Feed apace, then, greedy eyes, 

On the wonder you behold ; 
Take it sudden as it flies, 

Though you take it not to hold : 
When your eyes have done their part, 
Thought must length it in the heart. 

{Tethys" Festival.) 

Early Love 

Ah, I remember well — and how can I 
But evermore remember well ? — when first 
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
The flame we felt ; when as we sat and sighed 
And looked upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail, 


Samuel Daniel 

And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : and thus 
In that first garden of our simpleness 
We spent our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then 
Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, 
Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show 
What she would have me, yet not have me, know. 
(Hymerts Triumph, Act I., Sc. i., //. 83-98.) 


Had Sorrow ever fitter place 

To act his part, 

Than is my heart, 
Where it takes up all the space— 1 

Where is no vein 

To entertain 
A thought that wears another face ? 

Nor will I sorrow ever have, 

Therein to be 

But only thee, 
To whom I full possession gave : 

Thou in thy name 

Must hold the same 
Until thou bring it to the grave. 

(Hymerts Triumph, Act I., Sc i.) 

Loves Torment 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that with most cutting grows, 

Most barren with best using. 


Samuel Daniel 

Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, 

Heigh ho / 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, 
Heigh ho / 
(Hymerts Triumph, Act I., Sc. v.) 

Love's Secrecy 

Eyes, hide my love, and do not show 
To any but to her my notes, 
Who only doth that cipher know 

Wherewith we pass our secret thoughts : 
Belie your looks in others' sight, 
And wrong yourselves to do her right. 

{Hymens Triumph, Act IV., Sc. ii.) 

Ulysses and the Siren 


Come, worthy Greek ! Ulysses, come ; 
Possess these shores with me ! 
The winds and seas are troublesome, 
And here we may be free. 

Here may we sit and view their toil 
That travail on the deep, 
And joy the day in mirth the while, 
And spend the night in sleep. 


Samuel Daniel 


Fair nymph, if fame or honour were 
To be attained with ease, 
Then would I come and rest with thee 
And leave such toils as these. 

But here it dwells, and here must I 
With danger seek it forth : 
To spend the time luxuriously 
Becomes not men of worth. 


Ulysses, O be not deceived 
With that unreal name ; 
This honour is a thing conceive 
And rests on others' fame ; 
Begotten only to molest 
Our peace, and to beguile 
The best thing of our life— our rest, 
And give us up to toil. 


Delicious Nymph, suppose there were 
Nor honour, nor report, 
Yet manliness would scorn to wear 
The time in idle sport. 

For toil doth give a better touch 
To make us feel our joy, 
And ease finds tediousness as much 
As labour yields annoy. 


Then pleasure likewise seems the shore 
Whereto tends all our toil, 
Which you forego to make it more, 
And perish oft the while. 

Who may disport them diversely 
Find never tedious day, 
And ease may have variety 
As well as action may. 


Samuel Daniel 


But natures of the noblest frame, 
These toils and dangers please, 
And they take comfort in the same 
As much as you in ease ; 

And with the thought of actions past 
Are recreated still, 

When Pleasure leaves a touch at last, 
To show that it was ill. 


That doth Opinion only cause 
That's out of Custom bred, 
Which makes us many other laws 
Than ever Nature did. 

No widows wail for our delights, 
Our sports are without blood ; 
The world, we see, by warlike wights 
Receives more hurt than good. 


But yet the state of things require 
These motions of unrest ; 
And these great spirits of high desire 
Seem born to turn them best : 

To purge the mischiefs that increase, 
And all good order mar, - 
For oft we see a wicked peace 
To be well changed for war. 


Well, well, Ulysses, then I see 
I shall not have thee here ; 
And therefore I will come to thee 
And take my fortune there. 

I must be won that cannot win, 
Yet lost were I not won ; 
For beauty hath created been 
To undo, or be undone. 


Samuel Daniel 

Sonnets to Delia 1 


Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty * 

Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal, c 

Returning thee the tribute of my duty, *- 

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. » 

Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, t_ 

Where I have cast th' accounts of all my care ; 

Here have I summed my sighs ; here I enroll i. 

How they were spent for thee;— look what they 

Look on the dear expenses of my youth, 
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes ; 
Examine well thy beauty with my truth, 
And cross my cares, ere greater sums arise : 
Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly ; 
Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly. 


Fair is my Love, and cruel as she's fair ; 

Her brow shades frowns although her eyes are 

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair ; 
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey : 
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, 
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love ; 
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, 
Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above. 
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes 
Live reconciled friends within her brow ; 
And had she pity to conjoin with those, 
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, 
My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 

1 Numbered here as in the 1594 Edition— the poet's final 


Samuel Daniel 


Restore thy tresses to the golden ore ; 
Yield Cytherea's son those arcs of love ; 
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore, 
And to the orient do thy pearls remove ; 
Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white ; 
To Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet ; 
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright ; 
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet ; . 
Let Venus have thy graces her resigned, 
And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres ; 
But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind 
To Hyrean tigers and to ruthless bears ; 
Yield to the marble thy hard heart again : 
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain. 


Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose, 
(The image of thy blush and summer's honour) 
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose 
That full of beauty Time bestows upon her. 
No sooner spreads her glory in the air, 
But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline ; 
She then is scorned that late adorned the fair. 
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine ; 
No April can revive thy withered flowers, 
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now : 
Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours, 
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. 
~~Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, 
But love whilst that thou may'st be loved again. 


But love while that thou may'st be loved again 1 
Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers ; 
Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain ; 
Now use the summer smiles ere winter low'rs. 
And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun 
The fairest flower that ever saw the light, 


Samuel Daniel 

Now 'joy thy time before thy sweet be done ; 

And, Delia, think thy morning must have night, 

And that thy brightness sets at length to west 

When thou wilt dose up that which now thou show'st ; 

And think the same becomes thy fading best, 

Which then shall most enveil and shadow most. 

Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was, $ 

When once they find her flow'r, her glory, pass. 4 


Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, 

Whose short refresh upon the tender green ly 

Cheers for a time — but till the sun doth shew — 

And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. 

Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish ; 

Short is the glory of the blushing rose : 

The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, , 

Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. | 

When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, 

Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, j 

And that, in Beauty's lease expired, appears | 

The Date of Age, the Kalends of our Death, — 

But ah, no more !— this must not be foretold ; ' 

For women grieve to think they must be old. 

(xlvi) I 

I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read 

Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile ; 4 

Flowers have a time before they come to seed, } 

And she is young, and now must sport the while. ' 

And sport, sweet Maid, in season of these years, 

And learn to gather flowers before they wither ; 

And where the sweetest blossom first appears 

Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither. 

Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air 

And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise : 

Pity and smiles do best become the fair ; 

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise 

Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, ! 

Happy the heart that sighed for such a one. 

58 V 


Samuel Daniel 


Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
Brother to Death, 1 in silent darkness born, 
Relieve my languish, and restore the Hght ; 
With dark forgetting of my care, return, 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : • 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
Cease, Dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of the morrow ; 
Never let rising sun approve you liars, 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow : 
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

Let others sing of Knights and Paladines 
In aged accents and untimely words ; 
Paint shadows in imaginary lines 
Which well the reach of their high wits records : 
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes 
Authentic shall my verse in time to come ; 
When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies 
Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb. 
These are the arks, the trophies I erect, 
That fortify thy name against old age ; 
And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage. 
Though th' error of my youth in them appear, 
Suffice they shew I lived, and loved thee dear. 

Cf. J. Fletcher's 

" Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death ..." 

(ValenHnian, V. it) 


Samuel Daniel 

Spring Song 1 

Now each creature joys the other, 
Passing happy days and hours ; 

One bird reports unto another 
In the fall of silver showers ; 

Whilst the earth, our common mother, 
Hath her bosom decked with flowers. 

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven 
With bright rays warms Flora's lap, 

Making nights and days both even, 
Cheering plants with fresher sap, 

My field of flowers, quite bereaven, 
Wants refresh of better hap. 

Echo, daughter of the air, 

Babbling guest of rocks and hills, 
Knows the name of my fierce fair, 

And sounds the accents of my ills : 
Each thing pities my despair, 

Whilst that she her lover kills. 

Whilst that she — O cruel maid ! — 
Doth me and my true love despise, 

My life's flourish is decayed, 
That depended on her eyes : 

But her will must be obeyed, 
And well he ends for love who dies. 

1 Appended to Delia (159a). 


Samuel Daniel 

Epistle to the Lady 

Countess of Cumberland x 

He that of such a height hath built his mind, 
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
Of his resolved powers, nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; — 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may - 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! - 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 

Upon these lower regions of turmoil, 

Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 

On flesh and blood ; where honour, power, renown, 

Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 

Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 

As frailty doth, and only great doth seem 

To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' wars 

But only as on stately robberies, 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 

Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars 

The fairest and the best-faced enterprize. 

Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : 

Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still 

Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ilL 

He sees the face of Right t' appear as manifold 

As are the passions of uncertain man, 

Who puts it in all colours, all attires, 

To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 

1 " A picture of a wise man's mind in a time of public 
commotion. "—Wordsworth. 

Samuel Daniel 

He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires, 
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 

Of tyrants 1 threats, or with the surly brow 

Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes, 

Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. 

The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 

Up in the present for the coming times, 

Appal not him that hath no side at all, 

But of himself and knows the worst can (all. 

Although his heart, so near allied to earth, 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distress'd mortality. 
That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon imbecility ; 
Yet, seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 

And whilst distraught Ambition compasses 
And is encompassed ; whilst as Craft deceives 
And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man, 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
And th* inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes ; he looks thereon, 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, Madam, fares the man that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
Beneath him, and hath learned this book of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty, and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings ; 
By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as near 
His glorious mansion, as your powers can bear, 

Samuel Daniel 

Which, Madam, are so soundly fashioned 

By that clear judgment, that hath carried you 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; inured to any hue 

The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 

Both what the best and worst of earth can be ; 

Which makes that, whatsoever here befalls, 
You in the region of yourself remain ; 
Where no vain breath of th* impudent molests, 
That lieth secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience that without all stain 
Rises in peace, in innocency rests ; 
Whilst aU what Malice from without procures, 
Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge 
Than women use to do, yet you well know 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned 
Than being pursued ; leaving to him t' avenge 
To whom it appertains ; wherein you show 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base Malediction, living in the dark, 
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark ; 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of his world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all th' aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being pow'rless to redress ; 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ; 

And how turmoiled they are that level lie 

With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence ; 

That never are at peace with their desires, 

But work beyond their years, and ev'n deny 


Samuel Daniel 

Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
With death ; that when Ability expires, 
Desire lives still, so much delight they have 
To carry toil and travail to the grave ; 

Whose ends you see, and what can be the best 
They reach unto, when they have cast the sum 
And reckonings of their glory ; and you know, 
This floating life hath but this port of rest, — 
A heart prepared that fears no ill to come ; 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
The best of all whose days consum&d are, 
Either in war, or peace conceiving war. 

This concord, Madam, of a well-tuned mind 
Hath been so set by that all-working hand 
Of Heaven, that, though the World hath done his worst 
To put it out, by discords most unkind, 
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man ; nor ever will be forced 
From that most sweet accord, but still agree, 
Equal in Fortune's inequality. 

And this note, Madam, of your worthiness 
Remains recorded in so many hearts, 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right 
In th 1 inheritance of fame you must possess, — 
You that have built you by your great deserts, 
Out of small means, a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honoured name, 
Than all the gold of leaden minds can frame. 

TumbuUb* Sfetars, PrinUrs, Edinburgh. 

^ , 




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